


love is heavy and light

by violaceum_vitellina_viridis



Series: fire & powder [17]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Body Piercing, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cult of Kate, Deidre Ademeyn (The Witcher), Depression, Double Penetration, Double Penetration in Two Holes, Episode Fix-it, Episode Related, Family Bonding, Feral Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Five Stages of Grief, Frottage, Group Sex, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, I Shook A Witcher And Intergenerational Trauma Fell Out (The Witcher), Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Oral Sex, POV Changes, Piercings, Plot Relevant Genital Piercings, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Ruthlessly Cherry-Picked Canon, Self-Esteem Issues, Sharing a Bed, Soft Eskel (The Witcher), Soft Lambert (The Witcher), Song: Toss a Coin to Your Witcher (The Witcher), Swordfighting, The Inherent Tragedy of Witchers, Threesome, Vesemir Is the Best Papa, Whump, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 84,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25818475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violaceum_vitellina_viridis/pseuds/violaceum_vitellina_viridis
Summary: “If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”Jaskier doesn’t remember getting off the mountain.The dragon hunt happens, and everyone has to cope with the fall out of that.(See first author's note for important things about the rating and tags!)
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Series: fire & powder [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698274
Comments: 1927
Kudos: 1394
Collections: Ashes' Library, Polyamorous Relationships For the Win





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> tags will be updated with each chapter, so please pay attention to them! i will be putting warnings (if applicable) in the a/n of the chapters, as well. rated E because there _is_ porn in this, BUT it will be contained within single chapters, warned for, and i will put a summary of anything that NEEDS to be known in the end notes of those chapters so you can skip over them if you would like / need to.
> 
> that said, the theme of this fic is literally me, hefting the whump stick, and asking, "who's next?" 
> 
> it took two months to get this beast done. TWO. MONTHS. i love this series so much and this was _so fun_ to write, but holy shit i was super ready for this to be done and start posting. i'll be posting a chapter on sundays and wednesdays, (hopefully not usually as late as i'm posting this one l m a o). 
> 
> thank you as always to kate for being the best writing partner ever, and shannon for being a wonderful enabler when i needed breaks. also thank you to vinn (Heronfem), who put up with a lot of my whining (fair turnabout though since i was their rubber duck for silver and copper), and koda (DancerInTheShadows) who provided much encouragement as well as some worldbuilding (nothing terribly explicit, unfortunately, but their worldbuilding influenced a lot of the way i wrote about some things, so they deserve the mention).
> 
> this fic IS finished, we're just posting on a schedule for editing and other purposes.

_ “If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take  _ you  _ off my hands!” _

Jaskier doesn’t remember getting off the mountain.

* * *

_ denial _

At first, the only thing that can stop the echoes of Geralt’s voice rattling around in his head is drink. So, he drinks. And drinks, and drinks, and drinks; he spends three nights in the first tavern he finds at the base of the mountain, and stumbles on to another when he gets kicked out of that one. He avoids The Pensive Dragon and the ghosts he knows he’ll find at those tables, but every other establishment that will sell to him is free game, and so he goes to them.

He drinks. He drinks, and he doesn’t think about Geralt, or anything to do with Geralt. He drinks until he doesn’t remember Geralt’s name, or his own; he drinks until he no longer remembers  _ anything. _

There’s no telling how many days he loses like that. He doesn’t care. The echoes in his head of Geralt’s voice stop when he’s drunk, and that’s all he wants. All he could ever want is to forget Geralt, forget the mountain, forget the godforsaken dragon hunt and Yennefer and all of the mess that’s happened since – since he left home.

The drinking makes him forget. So he doesn’t stop drinking.

* * *

_ depression _

He doesn’t know how long he’s been drunk when he finally gets tossed out of the last tavern in town.

The barkeep that shoves him out the door says something about, “I think it’s time you dried up, boy,” but Jaskier  _ can’t  _ dry up, because – because sobriety means the memories come back. The echoes, the words, Geralt’s face twisted in brutish rage. Without alcohol poisoning his blood, there’s nothing between him and the sting.

But he’s already sobering up, already starting to see a little clearer. If only he’d been able to get one more drink, just, something else to tide him over so he can find – find somewhere….

There’s nowhere left here that will serve him. They’ve all seen his disgrace, by now, all sold him too much liquor as it is. He’s just been kicked out of the last establishment that would serve him, and he’s….

He’s got to face it now, he supposes.

It takes him a long time to stagger up from where he’d fallen to his knees in the mud. His whole body aches; head, chest, stomach, knees, feet. The inside of his mouth tastes like he licked one of Roach’s shoes –

Thinking the name makes him stumble. The ache in his chest increases tenfold, and he has to stagger over to the wall and lean on it heavily. His stomach roils, threatens to revolt; he has no idea if there’s even anything aside from vodka and bile to bring up.

There’s a long, long moment where he thinks he  _ will _ throw up, lack of stomach contents be damned. But it passes, and he breathes. He leans up against the wall, becoming more and more sober with each minute that passes, and breathes. Trying to focus more on the air he’s taking in and expelling than anything else – filtering out the damp, cool wood, the scratch of cotton on his body hair, the muted sounds of the tavern patrons still enjoying their night. Until all he’s aware of is the smell of beer and hay and horseshit, the rapidly cooling night around him, the sensation of his chest rising and falling….

If anyone were to ask, he has no clear idea how he gets to Hengfors, nor Mirt after that, or the tiny village along the Nimnar after  _ that. _ He remembers the mountain – mostly – and he remembers sobering up in Hołopole, but the days of travel between Hołopole and here, a functionally nameless fishing town butted up against the Kestrel Mountains, are either a blur or a black hole.

He tries not to think too hard about it.

Really, he tries not to think at  _ all _ . There’s a small, three-bedroom inn in this tiny village, and he gives the owner the remainder of his money for a week’s stay and shuts himself in the dusty bedroom to mope.

And mope he does, but more than mope, he  _ thinks _ .

He can’t avoid it, as much as he’d like to. There’s an emptiness inside of him, eating up his breath and his motivation, and his brain keeps trying to fill it with thoughts, with words, with imaginings. But all of the thoughts just make the emptiness  _ worse _ .

He thinks,  _ what if I’d stayed at The Pensive Dragon?  _ and  _ what if I’d managed to talk Geralt out of it?  _ and  _ what if I’d spoken to Yennefer first?  _ And – and much worse. 

Things like,  _ what if he’d been holding that back for years? _

_ What if he’d been waiting for the chance to tell me to leave? _

_ What if he never really loved me at all? _

* * *

_ bargaining _

It takes him more than the week he paid for to drag himself out of the endless spiral he sinks into the first night he’s there. He ends up having to do some work for the innkeeper, as well as a few performances, to pay back the debt; he does it all without complaint. Partially because he does feel bad about staying so long and probably ruining those sheets with saltwater and his own filth, and mostly because he really doesn’t have anything else to do – the work offers a decent distraction.

But eventually, his welcome is worn out entirely. He doesn’t exactly get run out of town, but it’s a near thing.

He crosses the river and follows the road for a while, counting through scales and naming notes in his head to prevent any other thoughts from forming, but even with his vast knowledge, there are only so many boring facts about music he can repeat before they run out. Somewhere in the vast emptiness of Redania, he’s forced to think about the mountain again, about Geralt, about those words that have been echoing around his head for weeks, even when he was too drunk to listen to them.

At first, he has to stop for a moment to breathe. In, out, in, out; again and again, counting, until the sharp edge of pain starts to recede. Then, when he’s certain he won’t start weeping by himself in the wilderness, he keeps walking, this time with different thoughts.

He can fix this.

He thinks.

Even if Geralt no longer wants him – he steadfastly ignores the pain in his chest – they… _ he _ can work around it. Agreements can be made, surely. He’ll travel with Eskel, or Lambert, or maybe he’ll…maybe he’ll stop travelling altogether. Certainly, there would be a place for him at Oxenfurt, maybe not as a full-time teacher, but as a more regular guest lecturer, or maybe as an extra hand in the libraries. Something, at least, that wouldn’t put him in anyone’s way. 

Or maybe – maybe Geralt will take him back. Jaskier can admit that he’s annoying, and overbearing; maybe Geralt is just tired of the bothersome parts of him, not  _ all _ of him. He could…stop singing so much, stop  _ talking _ so much, at least when he’s with Geralt. He could make himself more useful, learn more about…about monsters, about alchemy, about…anything that would help Geralt do his job. He  _ could _ . Jaskier is a smart man, always has been – he can learn new things, make himself less of a burden for Geralt to worry about on the Path.

Make himself smaller to give Geralt space.

He can fix it, he  _ can _ .

* * *

_ acceptance _

By the time he reaches Melov, a little township somewhere between Vartburg and Drakenborg, he’s decided.

It’s fine that Geralt doesn’t want him anymore. It  _ is _ ; he can almost think it without flinching. (He’s been practicing.)

He can move on, with or without Geralt. Maybe, one day, they’ll see each other again and they can come to an agreement – but Jaskier doesn’t need it. After all, he still has Eskel, and Lambert, even Aiden and Coën. He’s not  _ alone _ , without Geralt.

If he doesn’t think too deeply about it, he doesn’t even feel lonely.

So he stops in Melov, and performs in their single tavern, and sleeps in the extra bedroom of the barkeep. He makes plans to return to Oxenfurt and sends word ahead of himself. He’ll check in on the progress of his contacts’ searching for Renfri and see about those extra guest lectures.

At some point, maybe, he’ll hunt Eskel and Lambert down and explain what’s happened. 

It’ll be fine.

It  _ has _ to be fine.

* * *

_ anger _

It’s not fine.

How could it be?

He’s – he’s  _ such _ an idiot for ever thinking it could be fine, because it’s  _ not. _

At a tavern in Tretogor, he overhears a handful of cocky drunkards talking about their exploits. It’s banal banter, boring and stupid, nothing of importance to hear. Jaskier usually wouldn’t, but it’s the only thing happening here, and with his performance over there’s nothing better to listen to.

He hears one of them say something about the White Wolf, something nasty that he couldn’t even repeat because he probably didn’t hear it properly, but it doesn’t matter what he said exactly because Jaskier knows the tone. He’s about to stand and go over to their table, to make a scene like he always does, but –

He  _ can’t. _

There’s something that stops him, like a physical force holding him to his chair, and with a punchy breath he realizes…. He doesn’t have the right to defend Geralt any longer. Geralt doesn’t want him around, so he can’t possibly want him to do something as – as  _ stupid  _ as defending his honor. 

As if Geralt has anything like  _ honor _ .

The handle to his tankard cracks under the strain of his grip and he slams it down on the table. His heart is racing, because he just – he’s just realized. He’s an  _ idiot. _

Geralt yells at him, a handful of stupid words, and he – he was ready to throw everything away. Just like that, he was going to let the angry words of a man with the emotional range of a  _ teaspoon _ take everything away from him. 

_ Everything _ .

His chosen, hard-won family, his newfound home at Kaer Morhen, even his  _ music  _ – he’s hardly played for anything except performing, and even then his heart hasn’t been in it, and he just noticed. Jaskier was really going to just  _ let _ Geralt ruin his life like that.

The Witcher is an asshole, to be sure, a thrice-damned son of a whore – but Jaskier is  _ worse. _

He’s shaking, but there’s nothing to be done for it. The letter he writes to Oxenfurt is clipped, and probably rude, alongside nearly illegible, but he can’t care about that, not right now. He can’t return for the planned lecturing, and that’s all those dusty fucks at the Academy need to know. His plans have changed.

Geralt isn’t allowed to rip Jaskier’s life away from him, no matter how much he yells or  _ what  _ he yells. “ _ If life could give me one blessing _ ,” he can still hear it clear as day, but now instead of pain, it fills him with  _ rage _ .

Jaskier packs his things and leaves Tretogor, this time headed east. Geralt can have his fucking wish, but that doesn’t mean Jaskier has to give up everything else for him. The fire of his temper fuels his conviction; he’d planned to spend the winter in Kaer Morhen with his Wolves – maybe one of them isn’t  _ his _ anymore, but the others sure fucking are. He’ll meet Vesemir in Ard Carraigh and go up the mountain with him. 

If Geralt has a problem with that – well, he’ll just have to use his newfound fucking  _ words _ , won’t he.


	2. chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ard Carraigh looks much different in early autumn than it does in the early weeks of winter._
> 
> Jaskier arrives in Ard Carraigh to wait for Vesemir, then goes up the mountain for the winter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's past midnight, which means it's wednesday, which means i'm allowed to post this so i get to wake up to Validation :D
> 
> no warnings for this chapter, but the tags have been updated!

Ard Carraigh looks much different in early autumn than it does in the early weeks of winter. Jaskier has never been here this time of year; it’s much prettier than he would have expected it to be, with the leaves a riot of colors and the market just as raucous to match. Not as grey and dreary as he’s used to.

He arrives around mid-morning. The weekend market is in full swing, meaning it’s crowded and loud, but Jaskier doesn’t mind. In fact, he thinks the chaos is nice; he’s been essentially alone for his whole trip here, weeks on the road skirting the end of the Kestrel Mountains and following the Pontar and Buina rivers. So yes, the noise and color and confusion is rather welcome.

Vesemir arrives in Ard Carraigh around late fall to gather one last large haul of supplies; after that, there’s just what each of the others brings, and some emergency trips down the mountains before the passes close with snow. Jaskier knows he’ll be here – he just isn’t quite sure exactly  _ when _ .

So he scouts the inns and taverns. Some of the keepers know him, either because of his general fame or because of his semi-regular trips through with Geralt on the way to Kaer Morhen. Either way, he’s known as  _ the Witcher’s bard, _ as always. And it serves his purposes to be known like that, anyway. The innkeepers and tavern owners know Vesemir, too, fairly well, and they all promise to let Jaskier know when he arrives.

Once that’s done, Jaskier is…a little lost.

Usually, he would set up to perform somewhere. And he will, at some point, he’s sure, but…. Just  _ but.  _ It doesn’t feel like the thing to do, and his gut feelings are best followed.

He needs something else to do.

And, surprisingly, he stumbles upon it rather immediately after thinking so.

* * *

Ard Carraigh is not exactly the type of place Jaskier would expect to find a healer who specializes in piercings on the side.

Nonetheless, she’s here; her stall at the slowly-dwindling market is mostly tinctures and salves and other medicines, but what catches Jaskier’s eye isn’t her wares. It’s  _ her _ . She’s got little bits of sparkling metal and jewels in her ears, as well as a handful across her face – lip, nose.

When he walks up to the little booth she’s sitting in, he’s not sure what to say. Luckily for him, she’s either a mind reader or – more likely – is used to his specific kind of gawking. A knowing smirk spreads across her face, and she fingers at one of the ear piercings pointedly.

Closer up, she’s older than Jaskier had thought at first. There are fine lines on her face, all denoting a lifetime of smiles, and her hair, while still mostly brunette, is shot through with thin streaks of silver. Somehow, that makes him want to befriend her even more.

“I could give you one,” she says. Jaskier startles a little, taken out of his odd reverie, and considers.

“Okay,” he says. And then, out of nowhere, a thought strikes him. “But – could you  _ teach _ me?”

She cocks her head and looks at him for a moment. “A bard,” she observes. “Not the typical student.”

Jaskier grins. “No,” he agrees. “But you’ll find I am, in fact, a  _ wonderful _ student.”

She hums. “How are you with a mortar and pestle? I’m getting on,” she gestures to her hair, “and sometimes my fingers get stiff.”

Jaskier can feel the way he brightens. “I can help,” he says. He ignores the way his heart throbs and continues, “I’ve spent decades at the side of a Witcher. Plenty of practice with herbs and grinding them.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “A Witcher,” she says, clearly shocked. “Well, I’d imagine you did get practice, then. Alright, we have a deal then – you help me with my practice, and I’ll teach you how to pierce.”

Jaskier sticks a hand out for her to shake, and is not terribly shocked to find that she has a very strong grip. “Deal. My name is Jaskier.”

“Violeta,” she responds. “But you can call me Vi.”

* * *

Vi ends up being one of the most interesting people Jaskier has ever met.

She is, in fact, even older than she looks; according to her, she’s around eighty, though she’s not entirely sure about the year of her birth. She explains that it’s elven blood, a great-great-great-great grandfather who was an elf, alongside some other ancestors that were half or quarter. Aside from that – interesting, but not really earth shattering – Jaskier finds out that she’s had all sorts of trades.

As a young adult, she claims she was a prostitute; later, a baker, and then a weaver, and then a cook for a noble family. Alongside about a dozen other things she’s done, she was educated as a healer at the Imperial Academy in Nilfgaard. (She doesn’t expound upon how she ended up in Ard Carraigh, all the way from Nilfgaard; Jaskier doesn’t ask.) The piercings, she tells him, came later as a mere curiosity at first, and then a proper trade when she ended up being very good at it.

He’s  _ fascinated. _

She seems thrilled just to have a captive audience.

And that’s how Jaskier passes the time while he waits for Vesemir to return to Ard Carraigh for supplies. In the mornings, he helps Vi make her medicines, cutting and grinding and whatever else she struggles with because of stiff fingers. After that, she teaches him about piercings, as well as some things about healing in general. It’s interesting, and a decent addition to what he’s learned while following Geralt on the Path.

Pity that he may never get the chance to properly use the new skills he’s gaining.

In the evenings, he performs. His heart still isn’t quite in it, but it’s getting better.  _ He’s _ getting better. He has to; there’s no other option for him, because it’s either he gets better and forgets about that godsforsaken mountain and its rotting dragon corpse, or he simply wastes away.

He refuses to allow himself to wallow and waste. Thus, he performs, and keeps performing, and when the patrons ask him to sing his songs about Geralt, he does it because he needs to harden his heart to the sting of it. He can just hope that the patrons don’t see what haunts him while he sings.

And, if he finds himself crying himself to sleep at night, thinking of how much he wishes that godsforsaken dragon hunt had never happened, well. No one else needs to know about it.

* * *

Despite his best attempts to avoid it, trying to keep himself busy with Vi or performances or  _ anything _ else he can find to do, he thinks about it.

He thinks about the dragon hunt, and the words Geralt shouted at him, but he also thinks about himself. What he did. There’s still rage in his chest; he’s still  _ so angry _ at Geralt, for having the gall to send him away like that, and at himself for almost letting Geralt take his whole life with him. But more, he finds himself thinking about how  _ sorry _ he is.

That bubble of rage in his chest doesn’t like it, but it’s the truth. He  _ is _ sorry.

Geralt was heartbroken on that mountain. And, if Jaskier is honest, he  _ deserved _ it; he’d been just close enough to hear the things Geralt had said to Yennefer. Awful things – things the sorceress didn’t deserve, even if she was being catty and flighty and rude right back. But just because Geralt deserved to experience some kind of pain or guilt for what he’d done to Yennefer doesn’t mean he wanted to see Geralt  _ that _ hurt.

His Witchers all lash out when they’re hurt. Even Vesemir, though it’s significantly harder to rile him than, say, Lambert. So he should have expected Geralt to do just that when Jaskier pushed. And he  _ did _ , to an extent, just, not…. Not like that. He and Geralt  _ love  _ each other, or so he thought, and – and it’s hard. Hard for Jaskier to consider that maybe, his brazen attitude was the straw that broke the camel’s back, what made  _ love  _ into  _ loved. _

But worse than that, is the creeping thought Jaskier keeps circling back to; what if Geralt  _ didn’t  _ mean what he said on that mountain? What if Jaskier walked away when he shouldn’t have, and his rage and pain is all for nothing – what if he’d left Geralt alone when he was most in need?

Even more than the pain of what Geralt said, and the anger, and all of the other twisted things Jaskier feels,  _ that  _ thought is what haunts his dreams at night.

* * *

He finally sits down and lets Vi give him his first piercing one day when the weather feels more  _ winter _ than  _ late autumn.  _ It’s just his ears; a single, small piercing in each lobe, two little earrings shaped like stars. It hurts, of course, but not nearly as much as he had worried it might, and Vi looks so absolutely pleased with her work that even if it had hurt more, he’d have gone through with it all the same.

Of course, Vesemir arrives that afternoon.

Apparently, word of Jaskier being in town reaches him before word of his arrival can reach Jaskier. The eldest Witcher comes into the tavern and practically makes a beeline for the table that Jaskier is sitting at. He looks…well, not panicked, Jaskier doesn’t think Vesemir is capable of it, but he’s concerned.

“Is everything alright?”

Jaskier barely bites back a bitter laugh. No, it’s not, in fact; but that’s not Vesemir’s problem. It’s not even  _ Jaskier’s _ problem, not really – it’s Geralt’s. But Jaskier knows what Vesemir is asking.

“Fine,” he answers. “Last I saw him, Geralt was whole and healthy.”

Vesemir’s eyebrows climb to his hairline. “Last you saw him?” he asks.

Jaskier waves the question away. “I knew you stopped here each autumn. Would you mind if I come up the mountain with you this year?”

He supposes he could wait for Eskel or Lambert to pass through. But then he runs the risk of running into Geralt, as well. The good people of Ard Carraigh don’t need to bear witness to that scene.

There are a million questions burning in Vesemir’s eyes. For a moment, Jaskier is sure that the elder Witcher will ask them, and he braces himself. He probably won’t be able to answer them, or if he’s able, Vesemir won’t like the answers.

But the questions never come.

Vesemir sighs and looks around the tavern. “Alright,” he agrees. “As long as you pull your weight, bard, I’ll take you up the mountain.”

Jaskier beams at him. “Of course I’ll pull my weight,” he says. “Have I ever slacked off?”

Vesemir snorts. “Yes,” he answers plainly. “But not when it comes to preparing for winter, I will give you that.”

“That’s all that matters,” Jaskier points out. “Here, I’ll buy your dinner. Tell me what you’ll need me to do.”

The look full of questions returns, but Vesemir settles into his seat and does exactly that.

* * *

By morning the next day, Jaskier has a list of specific things to buy while Vesemir does…something else – the elder Witcher wasn’t exactly forthcoming. It doesn’t matter much.

He stops by Vi’s house to tell her he’ll be on his way soon. She looks very disappointed to hear he’s leaving, but she gives him several salves and medicines as a parting gift. She also slips a bundle of needles and a myriad of jewelry into the pack; Jaskier grins when he sees it, but doesn’t mention it, and lets her act as if she doesn’t know he saw.

“Just in case you get sick up in those mountains,” she says, gesturing with a tip of her head to the peaks of the Blue Mountains casting long shadows over the land, one hand on one of the salves. “Only the gods know what kind of remedies those Witchers might have.”

Jaskier laughs and pulls her in for a one-armed hug. “They take care of me just fine, Vi,” he assures her. “But thank you for these, all the same.”

“Of course,” she nods and shoves at him a little. “Come back sometime, you hear? I’m sure I’ll need more help, and I can always teach you something more.”

Something in Jaskier breaks and clicks into place all at once. “I will,” he promises. “Thank you for your lessons so far.”

Her answering smile warms his heart. He hopes it's enough to keep him until he can wrap himself in Eskel and Lambert, and enough to withstand the likely ugly reunion with Geralt.

If Geralt shows his face at Kaer Morhen this year, that is. There’s always the chance he won’t.

Jaskier couldn’t tell someone which he would prefer if they offered him all of the riches in the land.

* * *

One of the things Vesemir purchases is a wagon. Expected, really, from all the years Jaskier has helped Geralt do the same, but this is a rather  _ large  _ wagon.

He’s been up that trail. He’s not sure this will  _ fit. _

Vesemir apparently sees the worry in his eyes as they stack the supplies into the wagon and laughs. “We’re not taking this up the Killer, bard,” he explains. When Jaskier gives him a confused look, he continues. “No snows, yet; there’s a hidden pass halfway up the trail on the way to the Killer. It’s the first to get blocked by snow and the last to clear, which is why you’ve never seen it. It’ll add two days to our travel time, but it’s the only way to get a wagon like this up to the keep.”

“Ah,” Jaskier nods. He thinks of two days added to the time it already takes them to get up to the Witcher’s Trail and then it, alone, and fights a shudder. “That – that’s good, then.”

Vesemir laughs again. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you on wagon duty – you make sure the supplies stay in the wagon, I’ll do the rest. Also, it’s not as cold, at least not during the days yet.”

Jaskier nods. “Good. Yeah, good.”

The eldest Witcher’s laughter echoes around them as they continue to stock the wagon, but Jaskier finds he doesn’t much mind being the butt of a joke. Not when Vesemir is so…fatherly about it, at least.

* * *

Camping with Vesemir is…an odd experience, to say the least.

Not  _ bad, _ just  _ odd. _ Not what Jaskier is used to, essentially.

Firstly, Vesemir is – efficient. Of course, Geralt and Eskel and Lambert are also efficient, but Vesemir is something else entirely. From a sparse patch of grass amongst the trees to a proper camp, fire and all, in a bare handful of minutes. Jaskier doesn’t even get the chance to help; partially because he’s not used to Vesemir’s usual methods, and mostly because it all happens so quickly.

And then, the other thing is that Vesemir, himself, is so much different. He doesn’t coddle Jaskier, but he’s also just…more accommodating, maybe? It’s hard for Jaskier to pin the difference; after their dinner, he decides to stop trying. For a long while, he stares up at the stars, keeping his head pointedly empty.

“Are you not going to play, bard?” Vesemir asks quietly, and Jaskier jumps.

“I…wasn’t planning to, no.” Jaskier swallows and finds he can’t quite look directly at Vesemir. “Would you like me to?”

Vesemir shrugs, a movement Jaskier catches almost entirely in his periphery.

“Just a passing wonder,” he murmurs. “Sleep, bard. We’ll be up early tomorrow.”

“Yes, of course.” Jaskier shakes off the odd, unsettled feeling – or tries – and moves about setting up his bedroll. They’re quiet for the rest of the night. Jaskier can’t say for sure that Vesemir sleeps; he doesn’t know the elder Witcher’s patterns well enough to tell.

But  _ he _ doesn’t sleep. At least, not for a long while.

* * *

Overall, travelling with Vesemir is not much different than travelling with Geralt. Vesemir is a little more forthcoming with his words, but not by much – he only answers when Jaskier asks, basically, though he will occasionally volunteer information as they go. Usually about the local flora; little tidbits about what uses the plants they see on the trail have, if any.

Really, it’s nothing Jaskier doesn’t already know, but he likes the sound of Vesemir’s voice. And he can tell the elder Witcher enjoys talking about it, so he keeps his mouth shut for once in his life and just listens, instead.

The trip is easy, overall; the pass Vesemir spoke about really is much easier than the Killer, and they make good time. It still takes longer, of course, exactly like Vesemir said, but without the freezing cold and snow, Jaskier hardly notices the extra two days.

Something within him settles when Kaer Morhen comes into view. As if he’d been unsure he’d ever see it again, even with his determination.

Getting the large wagon into the courtyard is no small task, and Vesemir leaves Jaskier to lean against the wheel and pant while he stables the two cobs that had been hauling it. By the time he’s come back, Jaskier is mostly recovered, and digging through the supplies to try and figure out a plan of attack.

Luckily, it seems Vesemir already has one. He’s holding an old wooden crate that he passes to Jaskier.

“You know where the kitchen is, and where everything goes by now,” he says. “Start taking loads of provisions, I’ll deal with the rest for now.”

Jaskier tests the weight of the crate and where he can best hold it, then nods and starts packing it with food. He hums a little as he works, going back and forth between the kitchen and the courtyard with the haul of supplies, smiling at the small echo of his voice in the cavernous halls of the castle. It feels like coming home to hear it.

It  _ is _ coming home. In the last fourteen years, Kaer Morhen has become as much of a home to him as Oxenfurt ever was.

He’s determined, no matter what does – or  _ doesn’t  _ – happen between he and Geralt, that he won’t lose this.

* * *

  
  


It isn’t until late that night, after everything has been unloaded and mostly put away, that Jaskier makes the most hurtful realization.

He’ll have to choose a different room, now.

Really, he’s not sure why it didn’t occur to him  _ before _ he was climbing the familiar stairs to the hall that contains the bedrooms, but…it didn’t. It didn’t, and now he’s standing outside the door to Geralt’s room – to the room that used to be  _ theirs _ – and trying very hard not to cry.

He’s managed not to cry where Vesemir can see, hear, or smell him do it so far; he’s not about to start  _ now. _

It takes a long moment of breathing exercises, but eventually, the urge passes. He has to go in there, he knows; there are things of his that have been left. Geralt likely wouldn’t want to see them when he arrives. If he arrives. Jaskier sucks in a deep breath, holding it for a moment, just until his chest begins to ache, and then opens the door.

The smell of dust greets him. He’s thankful for that, at least. An entire year of disuse has erased the smell of him and Geralt together – at least, for his human nose – and it means it’s marginally easier for him to enter the room and look around.

He sees, immediately, just how much proof of his entwinement in Geralt’s life still lives here. Clothes still left strewn – he’d taken to leaving a handful of outfits at Kaer Morhen after his first year – as well as an old, battered lute he used to try and teach Geralt to play, with no success. A handful of journals and a larger stack of loose parchment, little sketches and bits of songs that were never meant to be heard outside these walls, so he left them here.

A hard swallow doesn’t get rid of the lump in his throat, or the burning in his eyes. He drops one of his packs to the ground and flips it open, slowly moving around the room and gathering the things he needs to; clothes go into the pack, parchment gets stuffed into the journals, and then the journals follow. The lute gets strung over his back, heedless of the uncomfortable way it sits on top of his usual lute still there.

He won’t let himself cry. He  _ can’t. _ Not here. Once he’s locked in his own bedroom, sure; but here, Geralt would be assaulted by the smell of Jaskier’s tears the moment he walked in. It’s the last thing either of them needs.

A small voice in the back of his head whispers,  _ maybe he didn’t mean it _ , again, and Jaskier bites his lip bloody to stop the sob that tries to crawl up his throat. He grabs the now-stuffed pack a little violently and stomps out of Geralt’s room, letting the door slam behind him.

The  _ thud _ echoes in the hall for a moment. Jaskier stands in the middle of the stone walkway, staring hard at the spidering cracks under his feet, and breathes. And breathes.

It takes a long time, entirely too long, but the urge to scream and cry and break things passes. He finally finds himself able to move, and now he has to consider the bedrooms. Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert all have their rooms spaced out a decent distance; enough to be close if they’re needed, but far enough for a modicum of privacy. There’s one at the far end of the hall, not too far from Lambert’s, that has a decent bed and a large hearth. It’s as good as any, Jaskier supposes.

He sets his things down and shakes the years of dust from the sheets and furs. He’ll probably need to find clean ones, at some point – or clean these – but for tonight, just removing the thick layer of dust will do. Exhaustion is pulling at him, and he can’t be sure if it’s the work of the day or the weight of his emotions crashing down around his ears all over again, but he doesn’t even unpack or undress. Instead, he collapses down into the still-dusty bed, and cries.

* * *

When he meanders downstairs in the morning, Vesemir is giving him that concerned look again.

“You and Geralt won’t be sharing a room?” he asks, and it sounds casual, but Jaskier knows better. He can see the worry in Vesemir’s eyes, and knows full well that if he  _ wasn’t  _ concerned, the elder Witcher wouldn’t even mention it.

“No,” Jaskier answers, tone clipped. He immediately shoves a piece of toast into his mouth, hoping that it’ll stop the conversation; he sees Vesemir open his mouth, but just as quickly it’s shut again.

He doesn’t ask any more questions. Jaskier is grateful, but not enough to bring it up.

They spend the day putting away what supplies hadn’t been last night and starting the basic yearly repairs. Jaskier can’t help much with a lot of the harder work – he’s strong, but he’s still just a human – so Vesemir mostly just has him running around to grab things or steadying ladders.

It’s hard work, but Jaskier doesn’t complain. Both because there’s no reason to, and also because deep down, he’s terrified that if Geralt arrives and wants him to leave, that Vesemir might just make him.

He’s aware that the thought is absurd. He can’t actually imagine Vesemir sending him away, much less over just Geralt’s word, but the fear remains. So he makes himself as useful as possible, and he doesn’t complain.

The next week and a half is spent exactly like that, working, and working, and working. Nothing Jaskier didn’t expect, but it doesn’t make it any less exhausting. All the same, after dinner each night he stays up to wander the castle.

He’s looking for  _ things _ .

The room he’s chosen feels…empty, and for the first two days he’d drawn a blank on how to fix it. But then he’d stumbled across an old couch in a random room by accident and inspiration had struck. Since that, he’s been looking around the castle for furniture and décor, things to make the room he’s in now feel more like  _ his _ .

He’s very careful not to think about why he has to do it.

So far, he’s found that couch, a couple of only somewhat damaged paintings, and several very pretty, if a little marred, furs. Once he has all of those, though, the room feels less empty but still…impersonal. He spends a day unsure how to fix  _ that,  _ but then it hits him.

Eskel and Lambert’s rooms.

He goes into each one of them and carefully picks what to take. Something small, or at least something they won’t miss. He promises himself that he’ll give them back, once Eskel and Lambert arrive at the castle, since he’ll have his Witchers in place of mere things. Once he’s done, he has a chair and little table from Eskel’s room, and a very nice extra fur from Lambert’s.

The room still feels off, but it’s much better now. He figures he can deal with a little strangeness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of a filler, i know, but it picks up a bit next chapter, i promise. 
> 
> once again, i have a blog for this series up on tumblr, [fireandpowder.](https://fireandpowder.tumblr.com/) it's still a bit barebones right now, but there's a post for each individual fic (the one for this one will be updated with each chapter), and a timeline. please reblog the fic posts if you like them!


	3. chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Eskel heads to Kaer Morhen for the winter earlier than usual._
> 
> Eskel and Lambert arrive to Kaer Morhen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the whump continues - now you get to see jaskier's behavior from another perspective!

Eskel heads to Kaer Morhen for the winter earlier than usual.

It’s mostly an accident; he ends up on a contract that takes him into the Kestrel Mountains, and by the time it’s finished, it’s late enough in the fall that there’s no point in traveling back down south. So instead, he wanders around for a bit between Buki and Ban Gleán, clearing out a few drowner nests as well as a handful of necrophages. By the time the first week of winter rolls around, and the first snows begin to fall, he’s cleared out all the monsters he’s found word of in the southwest of Kaedwen and figures he may as well begin the trek home.

* * *

He doesn’t think he’s ever returned this early. There is snow, of course – if the first snows have been starting at the base of the mountains, it’s been snowing for at least a week in the mountains. That’s just how it works. But it’s less snow than he’s accustomed to, which makes the path much easier than anticipated.

Even the Killer feels easier this year, though that doesn’t mean it’s  _ pleasant. _

Owing to good time made on the less-treacherous parts of the trail, Eskel arrives at the keep just before dark has truly settled in. Vesemir meets him in the courtyard, but before they can exchange the usual greetings, Eskel smells it.

Jaskier.

Why does Vesemir smell like Jaskier? Why does the courtyard smell like Jaskier, too?

It’s not the faint, faded smell of the winter before. It’s recent, and strong.

Vesemir apparently sees the question in his eyes and the flare of his nostrils. “The bard was in Ard Carraigh when I went down a couple of weeks ago for the bulk of supplies. Asked to come up the mountain with me this year.”

Eskel needs to bring his own supplies in and stable Scorpion, but all of that falls to the wayside at the mere implication that something is wrong with Jaskier, the fact that he was  _ alone _ . “Is he – Geralt – ”

“Jaskier is fine,” Vesemir assures him with a clap to his shoulder. “At least physically. He tells me that Geralt was fine the last time they saw one another. I don’t know anything more.”

The elder Witcher doesn’t need to continue for Eskel to understand that something is clearly, deeply wrong.

Jaskier  _ always _ travels with Geralt. Sure, they’ll separate for days or weeks at a time when Jaskier has performances or competitions or lectures to do – but they’re constantly within one another’s orbit. And Jaskier has never come to Kaer Morhen without Geralt.

“Fuck.” Eskel looks back to Scorpion, and the wagon he pulled up the mountain. “Fuck.”

Vesemir squeezes his shoulder, then lets go. “I’ll tell the bard you’re here.”

“Yeah, I – ” Eskel looks up at the castle. “Tell him I’ll need help.”

It’s not really a lie. But it’s not the full truth, either, and Eskel knows Vesemir knows that. The elder Witcher doesn’t mention it.

* * *

His worries are not settled when he sees Jaskier.

Overall, the bard looks normal and healthy, though the jewelry in his ears is new. But there’s something haunted in his eyes, and Eskel can tell he hasn’t been sleeping well. When they embrace, Eskel holds him tightly, and then tighter when he smells the bitter undercurrent of misery and saltwater at his throat. He’s been crying, either recently or just a lot.

“Eskel,” Jaskier says, and for all the ghosts in his eyes and the sadness tainting his smell, he sounds  _ delighted. _ “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” Eskel murmurs, holding him just a little bit tighter for a moment.

Jaskier lets him, arms equally tight around Eskel’s shoulders, and that – that’s just making Eskel worry more. Jaskier is tactile, yes, but he’s also restless; this motionless, tight embrace is unusual. Finally, Eskel has to pull back just to quell the itch between his shoulder blades. He can feel the reluctance in the way Jaskier lets him go, and it takes a not-insignificant amount of his willpower to follow through.

“Help me with supplies?” he asks.

Jaskier smiles, and Eskel ignores the way it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Of course. Tell me what to do.”

They work well past dark to get the supplies into the keep and sorted, as well as to get Scorpion settled. Eskel insists he can handle the horse, but Jaskier refuses to take no for an answer – as always. It’s…different, though, than usual. Jaskier doesn’t take no for an answer, and helps whether he’s really wanted or not, it’s a trademark of his. But now Eskel senses an edge of desperation in his insistence, like he’s not sticking around and helping just because it’s what he does. It’s almost as if the bard doesn’t want to be left alone.

And the more Eskel thinks about it, the more sense it makes. Even while hauling supplies, Jaskier has stuck close to him; trips in and out of the castle were made together, and Jaskier didn’t stray further than a dozen feet away at any point. He’s also been unsettlingly quiet, for him. Put together, it paints a startling picture of a Jaskier who’s – afraid? Insecure, maybe?

Eskel doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it at  _ all _ .

But he has no idea how to fix it. Because he doesn’t know what caused it, and he has absolutely  _ no _ idea how to ask. Certainly, it has something to do with Geralt – he’s not a fool, the clues are obviously pointing that direction – but he cannot fathom a situation between them that would result in Jaskier acting like this.

He’s  _ hurt _ . Jaskier is, rather obviously, deeply hurt by something. It explains the insecurity, the desire to be close, the lack of his usually endless chatter. It explains  _ everything _ , really. But knowing he’s hurt doesn’t explain what did it, or what Eskel should do about it.

Ultimately, he figures, the best he can do is just…give Jaskier what he clearly needs. Proximity, mostly. Likely touch as well. So that’s what he does. Once the supplies are stored and Scorpion is dozing happily in the stable, Eskel sticks close to Jaskier’s side. Vesemir serves a late supper, and Eskel sits as close as he possibly can. When Jaskier goes to sit on the couch in front of the hearth, Eskel follows, and pulls Jaskier into his lap.

Vesemir raises an eyebrow at him, but Eskel just shakes his head imperceptibly back. This isn’t about anything more than comforting Jaskier the best way he can right now.

Jaskier accepts the affection, practically melts into it, but he doesn’t say anything. Usually, he’d make some flippant comment, something flirty or teasing or – or anything, really, he’d  _ say something _ , but he doesn’t. He just relaxes back against Eskel’s chest and lets himself be held. Silently.

Surely even Vesemir knows how strange that is, even if he’s not acknowledging it with words or attention at the moment.

That prickle between Eskel’s shoulder blades returns, and he leans heavily into the back of the couch to try and soothe it. When that doesn’t work, he decides that maybe Jaskier isn’t going to talk, but that doesn’t mean  _ he _ can’t.

“Do you want to hear about the idr I took out this summer?”

Jaskier turns his head to look at him; the smile still doesn’t reach his eyes, but Eskel ignores that. “A what?”

“Awful insectoid creature, like arachnomorphs but worse,” he starts, settling a little deeper into the couch and adjusting his hold on Jaskier’s waist. “Almost looks like some kind of dog, but with six legs and fucking pincers.”

* * *

By the time Eskel has finished his story about the idr, Jaskier is all but asleep in his lap, and Vesemir has long been retired for the night.

“Come on,” Eskel murmurs. “Bedtime.” He shifts his hold on Jaskier so he can stand up and carry him. Jaskier just huffs a sound bordering on indignant, but doesn’t voice any complaint, and his arms wind around Eskel’s neck easily.

Without thinking, Eskel heads to Geralt’s room. Before Eskel can even reach for the doorknob, though, Jaskier is squirming almost violently out of his arms. In his shock, Eskel nearly lets him drop outright, but manages to catch up quickly enough to let him down properly.

“I’ve got my own room this year,” Jaskier says, falsely bright. The smile on his face barely even makes it to his cheeks, much less his eyes. He’s gesturing to the far end of the hall, toward Lambert’s room, about as far as one can get from Geralt’s room.

Eskel swallows down all of the questions that want to burst out of him –  _ what’s wrong? Why aren’t you sharing a room with Geralt? Where is Geralt, and why aren’t you together?  _ – and nods. “Right,” he says, and if his voice sounds creaky and weak to Jaskier, the bard doesn’t mention it.

He follows Jaskier to the room he’s chosen. It actually  _ is _ the furthest room from Geralt’s, at least that’s already furnished. And he can see Jaskier has been busy, too, because there’s all kinds of things in the room now that weren’t last winter. Including some things he recognizes from his own room, and some from Lambert’s, too.

None from Geralt’s.

He doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t even have the words, much less the desire. Regarding the thievery – he would give his entire bed and more to make Jaskier happy, to see him smile properly even just once, so a table and a chair? He won’t even miss them. And even if he would, he’s dealt with much worse for much, much less.

Jaskier is moving about the room, flitting back and forth, but he’s…not actually doing anything. To an untrained eye, it might look like he’s getting ready for bed, but he’s not. Eskel knows his usual routines, and Jaskier isn’t following any of them. He’s just…moving. As if he thinks if he puts on a good enough show, Eskel won’t question it, will return to his own room for the night.

Well, Eskel  _ isn’t  _ going to question it. But he sure as hell isn’t going to leave Jaskier alone.

He catches Jaskier’s wrist when he comes past and pulls the bard into his chest, into a kiss, easily. It’s tense for a split second before Jaskier’s mind catches up to his body, and then he’s kissing back. It’s tentative, and chaste, and nothing like kissing Jaskier usually is. Eskel pushes it to the back of his mind.

“Mind if I stay?” he asks, voice soft. Jaskier’s eyes are closed still, and he nods almost as if he’s in a trance. But he snaps out of it quickly enough. His eyes fly open, and even with the ghosts Eskel can still see there, he looks…okay. Not happy, not like himself, but the darkness is receding a little.

“Please do,” Jaskier says, and it  _ sounds _ flirty, like a little tease, like Jaskier usually is.

But it doesn’t  _ feel  _ the same.

Eskel swallows back all of those questions once again, and presses a small kiss to Jaskier’s jaw. “Let me get some things,” he murmurs. “Be right back.”

Jaskier lets him go, just as reluctantly as he did earlier in the courtyard, and Eskel practically sprints to his room. What he needs isn’t his things, but instead a brief moment to himself before he can no longer hold back the flood of questions and fear and love beating at the dam of his chest. He comes back with a fistful of clothes and a book anyway.

If Jaskier noticed that he was gone for several more minutes than he should have been, the bard keeps it to himself.

* * *

The next few days pass in the usual blur of repairs and work, and there’s only one upside in all of it: Eskel is too exhausted at the end of each day to risk blurting out questions about Jaskier’s behavior.

Not exhausted enough to not  _ notice _ it, of course. Just so tired he doesn’t ask questions.

Jaskier’s lack of chatter has continued. He still talks, of course, but the silences are more frequent and longer than ever before. He doesn’t flirt as much and when he does, there’s an emptiness to it, a hollow ring that makes Eskel’s hair stand on end. There’s less animation to his movements, less…spreading? Eskel isn’t sure how to describe it; where once Jaskier was all wide arms and legs kicked up on tables and dramatic movements, now he’s almost  _ reserved. _ His arms stay at his sides, and he sits properly in chairs.

It’s upsetting and unsettling and any manner of things that Eskel would usually run away from.

But this is Kaer Morhen. There’s nowhere to run, and even besides that, it’s  _ Jaskier _ . The least Eskel can do is…well, he’s not really sure. He’s been giving Jaskier what he seems to want – remaining close when he’s not busy doing work Jaskier can’t help with; touching him whenever he can find the excuse; spending each night in Jaskier’s bed or dragging the bard to his. Surely  _ that  _ is the least he can do, and he’s doing it.

What  _ else _ can he do? Every time he thinks about it, he always comes to the exact same conclusion: without asking Jaskier what happened, there  _ is _ nothing else.

It doesn’t sit right in his heart or his gut, but he can’t seem to figure out how to ask the questions he’d need to change that, either.

* * *

Four days and some hours after Eskel arrives at Kaer Morhen, Lambert arrives as well. In a show of exactly how good Lambert is with horses, his new mare bolts into the woods the moment she’s free of the wagon, the rest of her tack still intact.

If Eskel was a great brother, he wouldn’t laugh.

He’s not a great brother.

“How did you even get her up the Killer?” he asks through chuckles, a good fifteen minutes later. He’d spent that fifteen minutes laughing too hard to speak.

Lambert makes a huffy noise and mutters something about “crazy fucking horses” and “stupid brothers” that just makes Eskel break into guffaws again. Jaskier had arrived just in time to see the mare’s tail disappear into the trees, and he’s laughing a bit too, though still in that not-quite-genuine way. Eskel is sure Lambert doesn’t notice it because he can’t imagine  _ Lambert _ not mentioning it.

“Fuck,” Lambert hisses. “I can’t just leave the damn horse, but these supplies – ”

Eskel coughs to settle the chuckles still breaking free and waves a hand. “I’ve got it,” he says. “Go find your runaway.”

Jaskier suddenly pipes up from near the wagon. “Can I help?” he asks.

“With the supplies?” Eskel asks, though he’s pretty sure that’s not what Jaskier is asking. Jaskier doesn’t even roll his eyes at it, and Eskel finds himself having to run a hand through his hair to quell the sudden burst of nervous energy. He’s been getting it every time Jaskier doesn’t act like he usually does. It’s past  _ annoying _ and into  _ infuriating _ . Luckily for him so far, Jaskier and Vesemir haven’t noticed his new twitchiness. Or at least, they haven’t brought it up.

Lambert looks over to Jaskier. “You want to help me wrangle a jumpy mare, bard?”

Jaskier nods. Lambert seems to consider for a moment, looking between Jaskier and the trees his horse disappeared into, before he finally shrugs.

“Fine,” he says. “C’mon, then. You’ll be alright, Eskel?”

Eskel finds himself fixated a little on Jaskier for a moment. He’s clearly excited, and it’s the most expressive Eskel has seen him since he arrived. When Lambert coughs, he shakes himself out of it. “Yeah,” he answers. “Vesemir can help if I need it. It’ll be fine.”

“Alright. You got that dagger of yours, bard? Might come in handy.”

Eskel watches them go with something like trepidation sitting heavy in his gut. He has no idea if Jaskier will behave any differently around Lambert than he usually does, and even if he does, he can’t be sure Lambert will notice. Lambert’s as perceptive as any of them, of course, but he’s also cocky and arrogant and known to end up in his own head.

He can’t quite decide which would be worse: Lambert not noticing a thing, or Lambert noticing and, because he can’t ever leave anything alone,  _ asking _ .

Maybe all he can hope for is that  _ if _ Lambert asks, that he’ll actually get an answer.

Eskel sighs and finally looks away from the woods to the abandoned wagon in the courtyard. He’s got work to do. No point in standing here brooding about  _ maybes. _

* * *

By the time Jaskier and Lambert come trudging back with Lambert’s wayward mare, Eskel has finished unloading and storing the supplies. They both look beat, covered in mud and with leaves in their hair; Jaskier is even still panting a little.

Eskel is the one to meet them by the stables. He holds out a hand for the reins and Lambert doesn’t hesitate to hand them over, but now that they’re close, Eskel can see that Lambert’s more than just worn out. He looks worried. Eskel raises a brow at him, as subtle as he can, and then shakes his head just as subtly.

Jaskier, on the other side of the mare, apparently doesn’t see any of this exchange. Eskel looks over him for a moment before glancing back to Lambert.

“Jaskier,” he says. “Vesemir has dinner made – go ahead. Lambert and I will meet you in there once we get her settled.”

“Are you sure?” Jaskier says, and he looks determined. Despite that, he has to fight a yawn, and Eskel can’t help but chuckle.

“Yes,” he answers. “Go on. We won’t be long.”

He hopes.

“Alright.” Jaskier nods and reaches up to pet the mare. She doesn’t exactly look thrilled about it, but she doesn’t move away or try to bite or kick, so it seems he’s gained at least a little of her trust. “Good night, Pie.”

Eskel snorts. “You named the  _ piebald _ horse  _ Pie _ ?”

Lambert gives him an affronted look. “What do you think, asshole?” he asks. “The  _ bard _ named her Pie.  _ I _ didn’t give her a name.”

“She deserves a name, Lambert!” Jaskier calls behind him, just before he’s climbing the steps to head into the castle. Both Eskel and Lambert stand and watch him until he’d disappeared inside, and the door has slammed shut behind him.

“C’mon, Pie,” Eskel murmurs, and pulls gently at the reins. Pie snorts unhappily but follows along.

“Okay,” Lambert says, immediately going about opening a stall and gathering feed and water while Eskel gentles Pie inside. “What the fuck?”

“What?” Eskel asks. He dodges deftly when Pie tries to bite him as he works on removing the bridle. “You’re the wrong color but you could be a Roach,” he murmurs to her. She snorts directly into his face and takes another snap that he has to duck.

“Jaskier,” Lambert says, as if Eskel should already be on the same page.

In reality, he is, but he wants to make Lambert say it, so he doesn’t feel as much like a crazy person. Vesemir has acknowledged it, in his own way, but Eskel has felt like the only one really  _ noticing. _

“What about him?”

“He’s – ” Lambert grinds his teeth audibly, “ – there’s something  _ wrong. _ ”

Eskel has to sidestep another attempted bite from Pie, though she settles when she realizes he’s  _ removing _ her saddle. “Yeah,” he says. “Notice anything else  _ wrong, _ Lambert?”

There’s a pause, the only sound Lambert fucking with the feed and the gentle  _ clink _ of Eskel undoing the buckles on Pie’s saddle. Then, finally, Lambert says, “Geralt isn’t here, is he.”

It’s not a question. Eskel answers, “No, he’s not,” anyway.

“Why – I mean,” Lambert makes a frustrated noise, somewhere between a sigh and a growl. “What happened?”

Eskel shrugs. “Don’t know. Vesemir found Jaskier in Ard Carraigh in late fall.”

“He came up with  _ Vesemir _ ?”

Eskel nods. He finally gets the saddle completely loose and lifts it off of Pie’s back. She does a little shimmy and gives him a look he feels decently comfortable interpreting as a thanks. Lambert trades him, taking the saddle and handing him a bucket of feed as well as some oats.

“Where is Geralt?”

“Don’t know. From what little Jaskier told Vesemir, they split in late summer.”

“Late  _ summer _ ,” Lambert huffs. “That’s – no.”

Eskel shrugs again. “S’what Jaskier said.”

“They’re always travelling together. Geralt  _ always _ brings Jaskier up the trail.”

Eskel sighs. “I  _ know _ that, Lambert,” he snaps. Pie jumps when he accidentally slams the door to her stall. “I know. Something happened, and I don’t know  _ what _ , but it must have been bad, because Jaskier’s – he’s…not himself.”

Admitting it out loud feels like both the best and worst thing he could do.

He finally turns to look at Lambert and finds his brother staring at him, mouth slightly parted. He looks shocked, yes, but there’s something else in his expression. Worry, concern, but deeper.  _ Distress. _ Eskel sucks in a breath and he can smell it.

“What do we do?”

He blows out the breath in one heavy gust. “I haven’t figured that out yet.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

* * *

When they get back to the castle, Jaskier isn’t eating dinner, and he’s not in the main room.

“He went to bed,” Vesemir informs them, when he finds them giving each other worried looks in the kitchen. “Or he went up to his room, at the least.”

It takes everything in him to not run all the way. All the same, he and Lambert both take the stairs three at a time.

Jaskier is exactly where Vesemir said, in his room. The door is cracked, and Eskel holds a hand up to stop Lambert from running all the way down the hall. He holds a finger up to his lips, and in tandem, they fall into silent steps, toeing around cracks and particularly hollow-sounding areas.

They stop short about four, five feet from Jaskier’s door. Close enough they can see through the crack, can smell and hear, but far enough Jaskier won’t know they’re there unless he comes to the door.

Jaskier is sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in the fur Eskel knows he stole from Lambert’s room – a glance toward Lambert lets him know Lambert has realized that, too – and…doing breathing exercises. In and out at a clear, steady pace, though it’s a little shaky.

The realization hits Eskel like a punch to the gut.

He’s trying not to cry.

He looks back to Lambert and they make eye contact. Eskel jerks his head back down the hallway, toward the stairs, and Lambert nods. They tiptoe back the way they came, until they’re at the top of the stairs once more.

“He’s – ”

“Yeah.”

Lambert looks outright panicked, now. Eskel isn’t sure what  _ he _ looks like, but he  _ feels _ the panic, so it’s probably similar. After a moment of allowing himself to feel the anxiety, he takes a deep breath and locks it down. When he feels like he’s got a hold on it, he reaches out to grab Lambert’s shoulder to help him do the same. It takes a moment longer for Lambert to get a hold on himself, but he does it.

“What do we do?” Lambert asks again. He looks and sounds much calmer, now, but Eskel can still smell the unease on him. “What have you been doing?”

Eskel shrugs one shoulder. “Being there,” he answers simply. “We’ve slept in the same bed since I got here, his or mine. When I’m not doing repairs, I’m somewhere near him.”

“Alright,” Lambert nods. “Alright, that’s – I can do that. We should – ”

He doesn’t finish, but the pointed tilt of his head toward Jaskier’s room says plenty. Eskel takes another deep breath and nods. This time, when they go down the hallway, they move slowly and are intentionally loud.

By the time they get back to Jaskier’s room, he’s no longer wrapped in the fur, and there’s only the faintest scent of misery and saltwater to give him away.

More than anything, Eskel hates that he’s getting used to that smell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bonus points if you can pin down the line(s) i wrote that, to me at least, truly demonstrate how _off_ jaskier is right now.
> 
> i love all of you very much :D


	4. chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The snows are beginning to come for real; not blocking all of the passes yet, but threatening it._
> 
> _Geralt is still missing._
> 
> _They’re not talking about it._
> 
> Winter continues at Kaer Morhen, and there's both a breakdown and a breakthrough.

Another handful of exhausting, work-filled days pass. The snows are beginning to come for real; not blocking all of the passes yet, but threatening it.

Eskel has been here for a little over a week. Lambert arrived more or less on time for his usual.

Geralt is still missing.

They’re not talking about it, but they’re all nervous. Even if Eskel couldn’t smell it at thirty paces, it’s obvious. Vesemir keeps going up to the towers overlooking the Killer; Lambert is constantly in the stables moving things around, or just pacing the hallways. And Jaskier – well.

Jaskier.

Nothing about his behavior has changed, really. But the things that had  _ already _ changed, the silences and the stillness and the crying – they’re getting worse. It’s another thing hanging in the air between all of them, unspoken but well known.

Of course, if something happened between Geralt and Jaskier, it’s possible that Geralt may just avoid Kaer Morhen this winter.

But there’s an insidious little voice in Eskel’s head that keeps whispering  _ what if. _

Some of them are nothing new.  _ What if he can’t make it up the mountain for the snow? What if he’s stuck somewhere too far to make it this year? _

Others, though…others are worse.  _ What if he never comes back? What if we never see him again? _

And the worst of them, the ones that sinister voice whispers in the space between waking and sleep, when he cannot guard his thoughts…those. He cannot help but think about them, when he’s weak, but he refuses to put words to the feelings, refuses to acknowledge them in the light of the day.

Because if he lets those thoughts have power, he’ll break.

He cannot break.

* * *

Eskel stops counting the days, stops tracking the snowstorms. He has to, if not for his own sake, for Jaskier’s – the bard has noticed his lack of sleep, the increase in his meditation. Not in so many words, but he’s seen Jaskier looking at him, something like grief and concern etched into the downturn of his mouth.

So he ignores the outside world and focuses solely on the things he can do. He can do repairs around the castle; he can train with Lambert; he can make stupid, finicky pastries in an attempt to make Jaskier smile.

That works, actually, the pastries. The smile still won’t touch the bard’s eyes, but he  _ does _ smile, even when the offering Eskel brings him is a little charred in places, or doughy (sometimes, they’re both). And he eats them. So far he hasn’t been sick for it, so Eskel figures it’s something he actually  _ can _ do, and keeps doing it.

Lambert seems to be doing the same as him, though in vastly different ways. Most notably, he’s trying to learn to play the lute.

Jaskier hasn’t been playing, but he smiles and laughs when he teaches Lambert to do it. It’s not the same, but even just hearing the small approximations of music floating through the castle relaxes something in Eskel. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed Jaskier’s music until he’d heard Lambert’s.

He still misses Jaskier’s singing, but much like asking what’s wrong, he has no idea how to ask the bard to sing for them. Even more, he’s desperately worried that if he were to ask, Jaskier would be upset.

So he doesn’t ask. And he doesn’t think about the days, or the snow, and he keeps that sinister little voice in the back of his head locked under several layers of denial. He works, and he trains, and he bakes, and he listens to the sounds of Jaskier teaching Lambert the lute. He sleeps when he can and meditates when he cannot.

The nervousness never leaves any of them. They still don’t talk about it.

* * *

One night, Lambert picks up the lute that has become his unprompted. Eskel sits up a little straighter at the sight, not sure what his brother is doing; he and Jaskier already had their lesson earlier. Jaskier apparently doesn’t know what’s happening, either, as he leans forward and quirks a brow at Lambert.

Lambert doesn’t give either of them an answer to their unspoken questions, instead just looking down at the strings while he ensures the lute is tuned properly.

Jaskier turns that raised eyebrow look to Eskel, and he just shrugs. They’re in their confusion together.

Despite all expectations, Lambert is an okay player. Not anything near Jaskier’s level, obviously, but  _ okay _ ; definitely not the worst Eskel has ever heard. So he’s got nothing against this little impromptu performance. Judging by the small upturn at the corner of Jaskier’s mouth, he doesn’t, either.

And at first, Eskel doesn’t recognize the tune Lambert starts to play. Or – no, he  _ recognizes  _ it, it’s one of Jaskier’s songs, but he can’t name it. Until Lambert starts trying to sing.

Lambert cannot sing.

That’s apparently not about to stop him, as he belts out the chorus to  _ Toss A Coin _ , horribly off key even as he plays it correctly. At first, Eskel laughs – it is, objectively,  _ hilarious _ . His brother looks like an idiot, with a lute in his lap that looks too small in his hands, playing a song they all tolerate and hate in turns, and singing like a particularly powerful banshee. He’s certain Jaskier will laugh, too, because he always does when Lambert tries to sing – when any of them try to imitate his art. It’s  _ always _ made him laugh.

Eskel turns to find Jaskier isn’t laughing, and his stomach drops to his boots.

Jaskier’s eyes are wide, and full of unshed tears that sparkle in the firelight. His hands are tight on his knees, white-knuckled, nails making tiny little holes in the fabric. He’s  _ shaking. _

“Jaskier,” Eskel says, voice half a croak, and the bard is suddenly moving.

He bolts to his feet, wiping a hand across his face as the tears finally spill over. “I’m – it’s not – you’re just,” he splutters, voice wavering, “I just can’t – I’m  _ sorry _ .” With that, he turns and  _ runs _ from the room, footsteps thudding in the direction of the rooms.

Lambert’s lute makes an odd, hollow noise as it slips from his hands to the floor. The sound jolts Eskel out of the haze of shock, and he scrambles to his feet after Jaskier; Lambert follows a split second later.

They catch up to him just before his room. He’s crying for real, now, tears streaming down his face and his entire frame shaking with sobs even as he runs. Eskel reaches him first, skidding to a stop and wrapping an arm around Jaskier’s waist to catch him for real; the bard squeaks, but he doesn’t fight the hold, instead turning to press against Eskel’s chest. Lambert wraps easily around Jaskier’s back, so that they’re shielding him everywhere.

“Jaskier,” Eskel murmurs, half-hopeless. He brings a hand up to run it through Jaskier’s hair, holding him just a little tighter with his other arm when he shakes even harder at the touch.

They stand in the hall, Jaskier shuddering and sobbing into Eskel’s chest while both Eskel and Lambert hold him, for a long time. Eskel doesn’t mind the minutes passing. Instead, he just pets Jaskier’s hair and hums; at one point, Lambert starts humming alongside him. Thankfully, he can hum a tune much better than he can sing. Slowly, Jaskier starts to calm. The shakes lessen, and his breathing slows a little.

It isn’t until he pulls his face away from Eskel’s chest to reach between them and wipe at his eyes that Eskel even thinks about moving.

“Jaskier,” he repeats, soft. “Let’s go somewhere more comfortable, hm?”

Lambert chimes in at that, voice just as soft as Eskel’s. “Yeah, buttercup, come on.”

Eskel’s never heard him use that name; judging by the way Jaskier turns to look at Lambert with a small gasp, neither has he. Lambert just gives a one-shoulder shrug and ducks forward to press a kiss to Jaskier’s temple.

Almost as one, they shuffle the rest of the way to Jaskier’s bedroom. Once there, without speaking, Eskel and Lambert cooperate on getting Jaskier down to his smallclothes to sleep, and once he’s crawled into the middle of the bed, shucking their own clothes and shoes. They climb into bed with Jaskier, on either side, and immediately wrap him up again.

Jaskier sighs, and though he’s stopped sobbing and shuddering, there are still occasional tears leaking from his eyes even with them closed. Eskel presses soft kisses along his face, hoping to soothe; Lambert traces little patterns over Jaskier’s chest likely for the same end. At one point, Eskel’s gaze snags on Lambert’s, and he can tell Lambert’s thinking the same thing as him.

This has gone on long enough. Whether Geralt arrives or not, they can no longer continue to let Jaskier sit with this – whatever it is – alone. Because without knowing what’s wrong, they are leaving him alone with it, no matter how close they remain physically.

“Jaskier,” Eskel says for the third time, even softer than before.

“Mm?”

Eskel looks back to Lambert, who looked as panicked as he feels, but motions at him encouragingly and nods.

“What happened?” It’s all Eskel can think to ask. The only words he can spit out; he can’t force himself to mention Geralt, to ask anything more specific.

Jaskier sucks in a breath and tenses, just for a moment. His eyes remain closed, squeezed tight now; Eskel holds his breath unthinkingly, and hears Lambert do the same.

“It’s….” Jaskier stops and seems to be struggling for a moment. Eskel couldn’t rightly say if he’s struggling to say the words at all, or if he’s just struggling to find them. Both options are equally heartbreaking. “There was….”

It kills him, but Eskel waits. He bites his lip bloody and  _ waits _ , because no matter how twisted up he feels, it can’t possibly compare to whatever Jaskier has been feeling. He can find some patience to let Jaskier figure out how to say whatever he needs to say, or to find the courage to say it out loud.

Jaskier breathes deeply. “I’m not sure,” he murmurs, finally. He turns, so that his back is to Lambert and his face is hidden once more in Eskel’s chest. They press a little closer around him, and his newfound grip on Eskel’s side turns almost bruising. “I don’t think Geralt is mine anymore.”

Eskel’s eyes fly up to meet Lambert’s over Jaskier’s head. Lambert’s own eyes are wide, and his mouth has dropped open; Eskel is sure his expression matches, more or less. Jaskier sighs again between them.

“Don’t leave,” he murmurs, and Eskel pushes the hundreds of questions bubbling up in his mind back down.

“We’re not going anywhere,” he assures, petting over Jaskier’s side. “I promise.”

“We’ll be right here, buttercup, for as long as you need us.”

“Mm. Thank you,” Jaskier mumbles, and Eskel feels him yawn.

He swallows the lump trying to form in his throat, ignores the questions still clamoring for attention and answers in his mind. “Sleep, love,” he whispers, kissing Jaskier’s ear. “Sleep. We’ll be here.”

Jaskier yawns again, and wriggles a little, then seems to settle in to do just that.

* * *

Eskel doesn’t sleep, not right away. Neither does Lambert.

An hour or two passes. Jaskier’s breathing and heart rate slow and even out to the rhythm of sleep; tears stop leaking from his eyes. His body relaxes into their arms, though he occasionally shifts around.

It isn’t until he’s gone nearly forty-five minutes without moving that Lambert says something.

“ _ I don’t think Geralt is mine anymore _ ,” he quotes. “Eskel, that’s….”

Eskel doesn’t much care to hear what descriptive words his brother can come up with. He’s already thought them all. “I know,” he murmurs, unable to stop himself from trying to pull Jaskier just that little bit closer. His chest aches and those questions, as well as his terrible  _ what ifs _ from before are still at the forefront of his mind, even if he tries to pretend they’re not. Sooner or later he’ll  _ have _ to voice them, to  _ someone _ , but he – he just…can’t. Jaskier isn’t in the right place to be an emotional support right now, and he deserves better than Eskel burdening him further.

The only other person he can speak to candidly about the types of things running through his head right now, of course, is  _ Geralt. _ A bit ironic, considering.

“What do we do?”

Eskel sighs. “We’ll talk to him in the morning.” He presses his nose into Jaskier’s hair and breathes deep. Saltwater and sadness reign, but if he focuses, he can still smell the sunshine of Jaskier beneath it all. Muted, but still present. “And go from there.”

Lambert hums an agreement, then shuffles a little down the bed so he can bury his face into Jaskier’s neck. It takes another while, but he drifts off to sleep as well.

Eskel lies awake for a long time afterward, but eventually, sleep claims him, too.

* * *

When Eskel wakes, it’s late morning. He’s certain Vesemir must have heard – or at least smelled – some of what happened last night, and left them be. Lambert isn’t in the bed anymore, but when Eskel looks around, he finds him sitting at the little table Jaskier stole from Eskel’s room and thumbing through one of the journals sitting on top of it.

Jaskier is still fast asleep in his arms. Eskel presses his lips to the bard’s forehead and stays there for a long moment, just breathing. In sleep, it’s nearly impossible to tell how different he’s been these last weeks. Eskel basks in the false comfort for just a bit longer before he disentangles himself and sits up. Jaskier just rolls to his other side with a sleepy mumble.

“I’ve never heard him sing any of these,” Lambert murmurs, gesturing to the journal. “They’re all about us.”

“Maybe they’re poems, not songs,” Eskel suggests.

Lambert shakes his head. “No,” he says. “There’s little notes about music next to them, a few staves.”

Eskel hums and looks back to Jaskier, who has now sprawled onto his stomach. “What about us?”

Lambert is smiling softly when Eskel looks back to him. “Everything,” he says. “Some about our sword training, a few about your voice. And Geralt, of course. Just about everything about Geralt.”

Eskel takes a deep, steadying breath. “Geralt,” he murmurs, closing his eyes for a moment. He hears Lambert close the journal and stand.

“I’ll go get some breakfast,” he says softly. “See if Vesemir needs one or both of us for anything specific.”

“Alright,” Eskel nods. Lambert opens and closes the door quietly on his way out, and Eskel stares at it for a long moment.

Finally, he turns and pets a hand up Jaskier’s back, into his hair, and then back down. “Jaskier,” he murmurs. “Jaskier, wake up.”

Jaskier mumbles and shifts but doesn’t wake. Eskel firms the touch, and says a little louder, “C’mon, Jaskier. Wake up.”

More grumbling, and Jaskier rolls over, so he’s lying on his back instead. One eye cracks open.

“Wh…time’sit,” he mumbles, and Eskel smiles.

“Late. Probably ten or eleven.”

Jaskier groans and rubs a hand across his face. “Thirsty,” he mumbles, a little clearer than his previous question.

“Lambert will be back with something soon,” Eskel promises. Jaskier hums an acknowledgement and slowly levers himself up into a sitting position. Eskel just watches him.

When he seems to be really, actually awake, Jaskier turns to him. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and though he’s turned to face Eskel, he’s not meeting his eyes. “Last night….”

“Jaskier, no.” Eskel reaches out to grasp his hands. “Don’t.”

Jaskier chews on his lip for a moment. “He was just trying to cheer me up,” he says, nearly inaudible. “And I….”

“It’s okay,” Eskel assures him. He knows with complete surety that Lambert isn’t mad about it. In fact, at this point, Lambert is probably just feeling guilty about his lack of foresight. “We could never be mad at you for that, Jaskier.”

Their gazes finally meet. Jaskier looks almost relieved, and Eskel uses his grip on the bard’s hands to pull him forward, until he’s forced to sit up on his knees or topple straight into Eskel’s lap. Even once he’s balanced on his knees, a little closer to Eskel than before, Eskel keeps pulling, until Jaskier is forced to shuffle forward on his knees and straddle Eskel’s loosely folded legs. Once there, Eskel moves his grip to Jaskier’s hips and encourages him to sit, then wraps his arms around his waist.

It takes a moment, but Jaskier melts into the embrace and lets out a slow, soft sigh. “I’m sorry I’ve worried you,” he whispers, pressing their foreheads together. “And don’t try to tell me you haven’t been worried.”

Eskel chuckles a little and rubs their noses together. “I wasn’t going to,” he says, and they both know it’s a fucking lie, but Jaskier lets it go. “Please don’t be sorry. I just –  _ we  _ just want to help.”

Another sigh. “I know.” Jaskier sits up a little and watches his own hand as he moves it from Eskel’s shoulder to his hair, pushing it back from his forehead and then just twirling the strands around his fingers. Eskel leans slightly into the touch. “It’s…. I don’t want to go into detail.”

“That’s okay,” Eskel assures him. And it  _ is _ . Of course he and Lambert both  _ want _ detail, want to know exactly what happened – but they don’t  _ need _ it. What they need is Jaskier back to himself and happy again. If they can get that without any specific details into what happened, then they’ll be just fine.

Jaskier’s eyes find his again. “Not today,” he murmurs after a moment. “I will. I’ll tell you. Just…not yet.”

“Of course,” Eskel nods and reaches up to pull him back down, into a soft, chaste kiss. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Jaskier makes a small sound, weak and sad and grateful all at once, and Eskel’s chest aches so much, but instead of acknowledging either of those things, he just kisses the bard again, just as soft as before.

* * *

After breakfast, Lambert tells them that Vesemir needs their help with patching a wall in the courtyard. There’s a storm moving in, and it’ll be a heavy one. If they can get this wall patched, it’ll likely be the last they can do – at least, outside – until the storm is finished. They all dress, Lambert making sure Jaskier is properly bundled up, and head out to the courtyard. Jaskier, of course, is mostly there to run back and forth to the castle for them and for moral support, as none of them are willing to put him in any kind of danger climbing around on centuries-old ladders and crumbling stone.

It takes nearly two hours to get the wall patched to Vesemir’s satisfaction, and while it’s not the most work they’ve done in the last weeks (hardly even compares, in fact), paired with the biting cold, incoming snow, and the emotional toll of the previous night, they’re all ready to collapse when it’s done. Vesemir seems to sense this, and sends them in for a bath without any further instructions for work.

Eskel sends Jaskier down first, and stays back for a moment with Lambert. They haven’t really had a chance to really talk – any of them – since Eskel and Jaskier’s discussion this morning, so Eskel uses the moment without Jaskier to fill Lambert in.

“So, not today,” Lambert says. Eskel nods. “Alright, that’s fine. C’mon, he’ll wonder where we are.”

When they make it down to the baths, Jaskier already has the tub basin halfway filled. Lambert and Eskel take over without a word, and Jaskier lets them, though not without a roll of his eyes. Just seeing that, a small, barely-there return to Jaskier’s normal snark, makes Eskel’s heart skip a beat. Lambert gives him a questioning look, but Eskel shakes his head.

They’ll have to change the water between each of them, because they’re all that filthy, but it’s fine. Jaskier goes first entirely because he’s the first one undressed, and Eskel and Lambert share a look before they descend upon him to help.

He laughs, and the glee almost reaches his eyes for the first time in weeks. Eskel can’t resist the urge to kiss him, and doesn’t even try.

It takes nearly an hour to get them all clean, but once they are, they don’t leave the baths, instead all piling into the hot spring to relax. There’s no words shared, but Jaskier is humming, just a little; Eskel shares a meaningful look with Lambert, who is smiling just slightly.

Maybe everything will be okay. It may yet take a bit to get there, Eskel knows, but just hearing Jaskier hum, and that laugh from earlier, gives him more hope than he’s had in entirely too long.

* * *

They spend six days cooped up inside while the storm rages on outside. Jaskier continues to teach Lambert how to play the lute, and Eskel starts sitting in on their little lessons just to watch the way Jaskier lights up when Lambert masters something new.

Jaskier even starts to play again, a little bit. Just during those lessons, but it’s better than nothing.

Eskel feels like maybe it’s a bit strange, how he’s tallying the small, snail-pace ways that Jaskier is returning to himself. But then again, at least he’s not alone; each time Jaskier laughs, or hums, or plays the lute, Lambert looks at Eskel with a sparkle in his eye.

Maybe Jaskier isn’t ready to talk about it, yet.

But what little he has done – crying in their arms, giving voice to what little he has – clearly  _ helped. _

And, late at night, Jaskier talks more. Not about what happened, not really, but he – he acknowledges that something happened. That he’s hurt, and that it’s Geralt’s fault. More than that, he implies that  _ Geralt _ is hurt, too, that he feels somewhat guilty for it. He whispers his worries about Geralt not returning into Eskel’s chest, quiet and halting and afraid.

Eskel holds him especially tightly, those nights.

When the storm finally passes, Eskel and Lambert spend the day moving snow out of the courtyard with both shovels and well-placed blasts of Igni. Jaskier stays on the steps to watch them work, all bundled up. There’s a twinkle in his eye, something lively that Eskel hasn’t seen in entirely too long, and he has to keep reminding himself to focus on the job he’s been given instead of staring at the bard. At least Lambert is experiencing the same struggle.

After nearly three hours, they’re finished clearing the snow; Vesemir had helped a little at the beginning, but he’s long since gone inside. Overall, it had been rather exhausting work. But Eskel still feels keyed up, and when Lambert comes over to clap him on the shoulder, he can tell Lambert is, too.

Jaskier stands and crosses the now-clear courtyard, and the grin on his face is so close to normal, so close to being what Eskel expects to see on him, that he can’t help but reach forward and pull the bard into a kiss. Jaskier squeaks against his mouth but kisses back, traces of the grin still lingering on his lips.

Eskel finally breaks the kiss and leaves off with an affectionate brush of his nose against Jaskier’s. The bard  _ giggles _ . He has to resist the urge to kiss him again.

“Well alright,” Lambert says, and he’s going for snark, but his voice has landed somewhere closer to  _ fond _ , “I’m all for shows, but do I get a kiss too, buttercup?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and steps over to press a loud, sloppy kiss to Lambert’s cheek. Lambert’s mock-offended noise gets all tangled up in his laughter, and he grabs Jaskier around the waist so he can’t escape, then kisses him  _ properly,  _ dipping Jaskier down as he does _. _ Eskel watches with a grin on his face.

The moment is broken, a little, when from somewhere inside the castle Vesemir shouts, “ _ Bedrooms _ , Lambert!”

Jaskier pulls back from their kiss to laugh, burying his face in Lambert’s shoulder as he’s lifted back up, and Eskel’s heart swells nearly to bursting.

Lambert looks to Eskel with a smirk. “What do you say?” he asks. “Should we take this to a bedroom?”

There’s an almost unexpected pulse, low in Eskel’s belly, and he bites back a surprised grunt at the feeling. “Jaskier?” he asks.

The bard raises his head from Lambert’s shoulder. He’s biting his lip, and that pulse gets a little stronger. “I’m not going to say  _ no _ ,” he says. There’s teasing in his voice, and for the first time in weeks it doesn’t sound  _ wrong _ , doesn’t make Eskel’s hair stand on end.

Lambert makes a sound, somewhere between a hum and a growl, and in a move Eskel knows is too fast for Jaskier to parse, bends and hauls the bard over his shoulder. Jaskier shouts, but it’s  _ happy _ , and when he lifts his head to look at Eskel, he’s grinning. Lambert starts to march away without another word, but Jaskier reaches a hand out toward Eskel.

“Come on,” he says.

Eskel can’t say no to  _ that _ . He grabs Jaskier’s hand and lets himself be dragged along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> porn next chapter, so you're aware! i'll warn in the summary and notes as well when it's posted.
> 
> also, there is a snippet of this chapter but from jaskier's pov that will be going up on the blog tonight!


	5. chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lambert carries Jaskier all the way to the bard’s bedroom, then drops him rather unceremoniously on the bed._
> 
> Eskel, Lambert, and Jaskier finally come together again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woohoo! this is porn. hopefully it soothes the pain just a little, because, uh....well. there shouldn't be anything plot-relevant here, so feel free to skip this chapter!
> 
> whump tag :D
> 
> enjoy!

Lambert carries Jaskier all the way to the bard’s bedroom, then drops him rather unceremoniously on the bed. Eskel stops just short of the edge of the bed, standing just to Lambert’s side, and just looks at Jaskier for a moment, takes him in.

He’s laying sprawled in the middle of the bed, propped up on his elbows so he can see the both of them. He’s still grinning, and it’s a real grin, all the way to his eyes, chasing away the ghosts; his eyes are bright, and clever, and looking between Eskel and Lambert rather appreciatively.

Eskel glances to Lambert, sees his own thoughts reflected in his brother’s face, and much like the bath just before the storm, both of them pounce on Jaskier as one. The mattress bounces with the force, jostling Jaskier between them, and he laughs, loud and clear. Lambert cuts the sound off with a kiss, but even that can’t completely cover the little giggles that remain each time their lips separate, or the way Jaskier is still smiling.

While they kiss, Eskel sets to ridding Jaskier of his clothes. Or, more accurately, he sets to kissing all over every part of Jaskier can reach, moving the clothes out of his way as needed until Jaskier starts tugging them off himself. Between the three of them, they eventually manage to get him down to smallclothes; at that point, he pushes their hands away from him and starts yanking at  _ their  _ clothes, a silent demand.

Lambert scrambles off the bed to do just that, but Eskel stays. He’ll undress in a moment. First, he wants to kiss Jaskier. The bard seems content with the momentarily holdup in nakedness, letting Eskel push him down into the bed and kiss him breathless. One of Jaskier’s legs hooks around Eskel’s hip, and Eskel laughs against his mouth, rolling his hips just to hear the little gasp Jaskier gives.

He gets bitten for that, but he doesn’t mind. The kissing goes on for another few moments, until Lambert climbs up on the bed, and then Jaskier shoves Eskel all the way off the bed with a pointed look. Before he can even turn to face Lambert properly, he’s being divested of his smallclothes none too gently. Eskel laughs when he screeches in shock, then starts to shuck his own clothes to the floor.

Lambert is chuckling, too, running his hands up and down Jaskier’s thighs and belly to soothe the fright. Jaskier’s glare only lasts a handful of seconds.

“Rude,” he reprimands, and though there’s heat in his voice, it’s definitely not anger. “C’mere.” He gets a grip in Lambert’s hair – Eskel notices for the first time it’s slightly longer than it usually is – and pulls him up into a kiss. This one is significantly less playful than the last few. Eskel finds himself distracted for a moment, fingers falling still where he’s fumbling with his laces. He’s always liked watching Jaskier – in an innocent sense and, ah, not so innocent ways, too – but he realizes with a jolt that he’s never really watched Jaskier with _ Lambert. _ Not properly, at least; a few glimpses of sneaky kisses in dark hallways, distracted glances when they’re all together, they don’t count. He wonders how he’s missed it after all these years.

It’s hot, of course it is, but more than that it’s  _ fascinating. _ Eskel knows Lambert is much softer with Jaskier than he is normally – they all are, it’s hard not to be – but he never expected to see this level of gentleness in his brother. More than that, even, it’s not just gentleness. It’s  _ submission _ . Jaskier is the one in charge between them, at least right now, and something very warm blooms in Eskel’s chest at the thought.

After all, he knows how wonderful it can be to let Jaskier be in charge. He’s very glad to finally see Lambert knows, too.

Lambert has moved on from Jaskier’s mouth to his neck by the time Eskel is shaken out of his thoughts by Jaskier asking, “Are you ever going to finish undressing?”

Eskel scowls at the bard and resists the juvenile urge to stick his tongue out as well, but gets back to removing his clothes. He looks at what he’s doing this time, so he doesn’t get distracted by the sight of Jaskier and Lambert together on the bed. Though the noises are equally distracting – they’re just a bit easier to tune out.

Finally, he’s free of his clothes and can climb back up onto the bed. He settles himself near the headboard and then grabs Jaskier, chuckling when he lets out a little sound halfway between a shocked squeak and a moan at the touch. It’s easy to pull him back, until he’s pressed against Eskel’s chest, nestled between his legs.

“Mmm,” Jaskier hums and punctuates the sound with a little shimmy of his hips, turning his head to look over his shoulder at Eskel. Eskel rolls his eyes and leans forward to catch his mouth, heedless of the bad angle. Jaskier, though, is apparently not content with it; he breaks the kiss entirely too soon, scrambling around until he’s on his knees between Eskel’s thighs. They’re kissing again before Eskel can even really orient himself, not that he minds. He feels Lambert shuffle closer to them, grins at the way Jaskier arches back toward his brother all without breaking their kiss.

Eskel runs greedy hands all over Jaskier’s body, from throat to knees; each time he passes by the bard’s cock, either with no touch or just a light, teasing brush, Jaskier jolts and whimpers into his mouth. He does it half a dozen times before Jaskier finally breaks their kiss to sit back and glare at him for it. Eskel just smirks and winks before wrapping a tight fist around his cock and stroking, once, twice.

“ _ Oh _ fuck,” Jaskier groans, eyes slamming shut and immediately swaying forward when his hips jerk almost violently into Eskel’s hand. “ _ Eskel _ .”

Lambert laughs from where he’s kneeling behind Jaskier. “Feel good, buttercup?” he asks, hooking his chin over Jaskier’s shoulder and mouthing sloppily at the pulse in his throat. Jaskier sways back again, against him, and just moans in reply. Eskel loosens his grip a little, but keeps stroking him – a tease, really, and he knows it. Jaskier’s eyes fly open to look at him, and the glare would be much more effective if his lashes didn’t keep fluttering every time Eskel thumbs at the head of him.

Meanwhile, Lambert is sucking soft bruises into the skin of his neck and thumbing across his nipples. Eskel can see the way he grins each time Jaskier whines and jerks against him. After a handful of minutes of nothing but the sound of Jaskier whining and moaning, Lambert sits back, and doesn’t let Jaskier’s body follow him. Instead, he pushes him forward, into Eskel.

Jaskier laughs and lets himself fall and be held, mouthing across Eskel’s collarbone where he settles. His hands are on Eskel’s thighs, his forehead pressed against Eskel’s neck; Eskel has a perfect sightline over his shoulder and down his back, to where his ass is in the air. He’s a little distracted by the little swing of it, and the increasingly toothy kisses Jaskier is pressing to his skin, for a long moment; Lambert reaching out to massage the globes of muscle and spread him open isn’t exactly helping, either.

Eskel shakes himself out of his reverie. “What do you want?” he asks Jaskier, leaning back against the headboard just enough that he can see the bard’s eyes. They’re a little hazy, half-lidded and pupils wide, but Jaskier is smirking at him.

“I think I’m exactly where I want to be, darling,” Jaskier purrs in reply. That’s all the warning Eskel gets before he ducks his head and swipes his tongue over the head of Eskel’s cock; Eskel whines and jerks, smearing his cock over Jaskier’s lips and along his cheek. Jaskier just giggles and turns his head to smooth his lips along the side of it. Up and down, nothing more than just the light touch of his lips, dry and warm. Eskel shudders and then forces himself still, looking down at the display with wide eyes.

Jaskier meets his gaze, and as much as his expression is lusty and the sight of him with his mouth against Eskel’s cock is  _ searing _ hot, there’s a playful sparkle in his eyes that’s better than all of that. Before Eskel can open his mouth and say something entirely sappy, though, Jaskier’s eyes slam shut with a shocked sound. Eskel looks away from the rapture on his face to see what Lambert is doing to cause it, and feels his cock throb against Jaskier’s face.

Lambert is teasing at Jaskier’s hole with his tongue. As Eskel watches, though, it goes from  _ teasing _ to much more than that; Jaskier jerks his hips back into the touch and Lambert practically buries himself between the bard’s cheeks in reply to the silent request. Eskel can’t see much more than Lambert’s eyes squeezed shut in concentration, but he can  _ hear _ the rest. It’s wet and sloppy and obscene, and Jaskier’s rising whimpers just add to it.

“Fuck,  _ fuck _ ,” Jaskier groans, getting his arms under him properly so he can rock back against Lambert’s face for real. “Gods, _ Lambert _ , so – oh, fuck – so  _ good. _ ”

Eskel hears the way Lambert groans back, can see and feel the way that vibration rocks through Jaskier’s whole body on a shudder. His hand goes to Jaskier’s hair, tilting his head just a little against his thigh so he can see the bard’s face. Jaskier’s eyes are mostly closed, just the bare shadow of bright blue and wide-set pupil visible under his lashes, and his mouth is slack. Eskel reaches up with his other hand to brush his thumb across the slight swell of his bottom lip, transfixed by the sight of him.

Jaskier’s eyes flutter a little more open at the touch, and he smirks slightly before he wraps his lips around Eskel’s thumb and sucks it into his mouth. Eskel grunts, grip tightening in Jaskier’s hair involuntarily. The bard just moans and swirls his tongue around Eskel’s thumb.

“Fuck, Jaskier,” Eskel breathes. “ _ Look  _ at you.” He presses down on Jaskier’s tongue with his thumb, cock throbbing at the way Jaskier just drops his mouth open, practically an invitation.

“Oil,” Lambert rasps suddenly, jolting Eskel out of his stupor. He takes his thumb from Jaskier’s mouth, though not without petting suggestively over his tongue, and Jaskier winks at him before he levers himself back up. He leans closer to Eskel, slightly to the side so he can fumble with the bedside table. Eskel shifts slightly opposite of him to give him more room.

When Jaskier leans back and sits up a little, he’s got a vial of oil in his hand. Lambert snatches it from him quickly, kissing his jaw before shoving him forward once more. Jaskier makes a delighted little sound and lets himself fall forward into Eskel.

“Hello,” Jaskier says cheekily, when Eskel steadies him. Eskel laughs and kisses him.

Lambert wastes no time; Eskel hears him wet his fingers with a small, slick sound, and then almost immediately feels the way Jaskier shivers at his touch. Eskel breaks their kiss to peek over Jaskier’s shoulder and sees Lambert has two fingers sunk into his body already.

Jaskier is whimpering softly against Eskel’s shoulder, hips rolling restlessly back against Lambert’s hand. Eskel pets down his spine, more just to touch him than to settle him. He watches eagerly as Lambert fingers him open.

It’s not long before Jaskier is impatient, little grunts of “More, fuck,” pouring out of him. Eskel and Lambert’s eyes meet, both of them amused and relieved to hear Jaskier so much himself.

Lambert barely gets his third finger in before the impatience turns to demanding.

“Come  _ on _ ,” Jaskier pants. “More, want – fuck,  _ ah _ . I’m ready, I’m  _ ready _ .”

Eskel quirks a brow at Lambert, who just shakes his head back. Jaskier whines when Lambert doesn’t do anything more than keep fingering him, and Eskel ducks forward to bite and kiss along his collar and the side of his throat. Not much of a distraction, but a distraction, nonetheless. One Jaskier seems at least a little content with, judging by the way he presses himself a little closer to Eskel with each nip.

Finally, a handful of minutes later, Lambert deems Jaskier ready. Eskel chuckles at the offended noise Jaskier makes when Lambert takes his fingers away, but the sound of him slicking his cock is loud and obscene, and Jaskier settles easily enough. Eskel reaches up to pet Jaskier’s hair.

“Please,” Jaskier begs, voice soft and breathy. “Please, Lambert.”

Lambert grunts and Eskel smirks when he sees the way he has to squeeze around the base of his cock. He turns his attention back to Jaskier, though, while Lambert adjusts their positions and lines up.

“Pretty,” he murmurs, still petting Jaskier’s hair.

Jaskier hums. “You’re prettier,” he says, turning his head to tongue at Eskel’s scars. It sends the usual shiver through him, something like love and shame and arousal all at once.

Eskel sees and feels the moment Lambert pushes in. Jaskier’s eyes flutter and then squeeze shut, his mouth falls open, and his shoulders bunch and raise as he tries to push back. Lambert’s grip on his hips stops him, though, and he whines.

“Easy,” Eskel murmurs. “We’re not in any hurry.”

Jaskier huffs out something that might have been a laugh if Lambert hadn’t given a little thrust. It ends more like a pitchy moan. “No hurry,” Jaskier agrees breathlessly. “But I  _ want _ . Been too long.”

Both Eskel and Lambert make broken noises at that. He’s right, it  _ has  _ been too long. Eskel pulls Jaskier into a kiss, and it’s messy and uncoordinated as Lambert starts to move, but Eskel doesn’t mind. The way Jaskier moans right into his mouth without even pretending to pull away is almost half the fun.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jaskier hisses when he finally  _ does _ pull away from Eskel’s mouth. “Wanna –  _ oh _ , oh,  _ Lambert  _ – want to….”

Eskel chuckles. “What do you want, love?”

Lambert slows to a stop, ignoring the little whine Jaskier gives. “Tell us, buttercup.”

Jaskier heaves in a breath and then gets his arms between him and Eskel. He shoves, not hard, but pointed, and Eskel lets himself be pushed back until he’s stopped by the headboard. Once he’s out of the way, Jaskier watches as his hands slide down Eskel’s torso to his thighs; he’s biting his lip the whole time, but smirks when he sees Eskel’s cock twitch.

Slowly, he bends down, until he’s back to where he was when Lambert was eating him out. Eskel shivers and his cock bobs toward Jaskier’s face. The bard giggles and looks up to meet Eskel’s eyes as he moves, dropping with his elbows between Eskel’s thighs so he can use both of his hands. One cups and fondles Eskel’s balls; the other wraps around the base of him, so that Jaskier can easily catch the head in his mouth.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Lambert hisses, hips jerking just enough to send Jaskier a little forward. “You like being between us like this, don’t you? Clenched down so tight.”

Eskel has to throw his head back at that, growling from his chest when he feels Jaskier giggle again, this time around the head of his cock. He sucks, just lightly, then pulls back enough to speak; Eskel can still feel his lips moving, though, making him strain to hold still.

“I do,” Jaskier confirms. Eskel and Lambert both groan at that, and Jaskier just chuckles again before he puts his mouth back onto Eskel’s cock. This time it’s not a tease. Eskel’s hand flies to Jaskier’s hair involuntarily when he feels the bard’s cheeks hollow around him.

“ _ Fuck _ .”

Jaskier hums around him, knocking another growl from his chest. Eskel opens his eyes and tips his head back up just in time to see Jaskier roll his hips back against Lambert, kicking him back into moving. It’s slow at first, experimental as Jaskier rocks gently back and forth; onto Lambert’s cock, off and then onto Eskel’s. The sight of him impaled, trapped between both of them like this, threatens to send Eskel over the edge entirely too soon.

Luckily, it seems Lambert is in the same boat. Eskel sees the little trickle of blood where he’s biting too hard at his lip.

It’s not long before Eskel can no longer think of Lambert at all, though. The rhythm speeds up, and Jaskier sinks deeper and deeper onto Eskel’s cock with each rock forward. He almost can’t handle the sight of it, having to close his eyes every few moments to try and  _ breathe _ , but the sensation is almost worse with his eyes closed. Hot and wet and Jaskier’s tongue never stops moving, wriggling along the bottom and pushing against his slit, toying with his foreskin. He feels as if he might vibrate straight out of his skin.

Time loses meaning. All there is, is the feeling of Jaskier sucking him off, the sound of Lambert fucking him, the reedy moans coming from all of them – even Jaskier, though his are obviously muffled.

Lambert comes first, making a sharp, broken sound as he does. Jaskier rolls his hips back with a content little rumble that sends Eskel tumbling right after; despite the clear shock of it, Jaskier manages to swallow almost all of it. He’s smirking when he finally lets Eskel’s cock fall from his mouth.

Eskel yanks him up into a kiss, heedless of the bitter taste or the mess. As soon as it breaks, Lambert is there to replace him, pulling Jaskier up and back against his chest. Eskel’s hands fall to the bard’s cock, hard as steel and throbbing red.

Jaskier breaks the kiss with Lambert to whimper when Eskel starts stroking him, his hips bucking wildly. Lambert pets a hand down his side to his hip, then grabs to stop him from moving. Eskel bares his teeth in a grin when Jaskier makes a breathy sound and  _ comes _ , just like that, all over Eskel’s hand and the sheets.

Slowly, carefully, Lambert gentles Jaskier down. Eskel leans over the side of the bed and grabs the first material he touches – Lambert’s shirt, he thinks – and uses it to wipe up the mess as much as possible. Lambert gives him a dirty look, but doesn’t stop petting Jaskier's skin or murmuring sweet nothings to him, so Eskel figures he’s fine.

Once Jaskier is as clean as he’s going to get without going down to the baths, Eskel shifts to the side to allow Lambert to lay him down. They both crowd in around him, and he giggles as they both start petting over whatever part of him is under their hands. He’s mostly on his back, one of Lambert’s arms under his shoulders and the other around his hips. Eskel worms his way in, shoving his arm under the pillows and draping the other over Jaskier’s waist.

“Food?” Jaskier asks, around a yawn. Lambert snorts and presses a kiss to his hair.

“Later,” Eskel answers. “Sleep first.”

Jaskier hums and snuggles deeper into the little cocoon they’ve created. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll be honest, this was very nice to write when i was writing this fic. it was cathartic.


	6. chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Eskel’s not sure how long they’ve all been asleep when he wakes._
> 
> Geralt arrives at Kaer Morhen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gentle reminder for the next few chapters, in case anyone needs it: i _do_ fix it. this ends happily.
> 
> that said, i'm still holding tightly to the whump stick and swinging, so, fasten your seatbelts. :D

Eskel’s not sure how long they’ve all been asleep when he wakes. At least a few hours, he guesses, from how dark it’s become; it was still light outside when they finished with the courtyard, though the sun was beginning its descent. Jaskier has rolled to his side, so he’s mostly facing Lambert, and Lambert’s managed to get all of his limbs around the bard in some way. He just watches them for a moment, the gentle rhythm of sleeping breath and the way their eyes rove beneath their lids. They look peaceful.

His stomach grumbles, knocking him out of his rather sentimental thoughts. The sound wakes Lambert, though he doesn’t come to in a rush or with a jerk; instead, his eyes slowly peel open and he fixes Eskel with a narrow-eyed look.

“Probably past dinner,” Eskel murmurs. “I’ll go see what I can find to eat and bring it back.”

Lambert yawns and nods. “Alright,” he agrees quietly.

Eskel climbs out of the bed as carefully as he can, then searches the haphazard pile of clothing for his own. He finds them after a moment and pulls on his smallclothes and breeches. He doesn’t bother with a shirt; he likely won’t be downstairs for long, and if Vesemir is still down there, it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before.

Vesemir finds him in the kitchen considering a day-old loaf of bread.

“I saw Geralt on the trail,” he announces, and Eskel nearly drops the bread. He manages to catch it and put it on the counter.

“Just now?”

Vesemir shakes his head. “A few hours ago.”

“Why – ”

Vesemir interrupts him with a pointed look. “I didn’t want to disturb,” he says, as pointed as the expression on his face, and Eskel is very glad he can’t actually blush properly. All the same, he feels the heat in his face.

“Right.” Eskel coughs, awkwardly, and turns back to look at the bread for lack of anything else to look at that isn’t Vesemir. “How long until he arrives, do you think?”

“Last I was able to see, he’s moving a little slowly because of the volume of snow,” Vesemir says. “He was nearly at the Killer an hour ago.”

Eskel considers for a moment. “So, around midnight,” he guesses. That’s assuming that Geralt isn’t hurt, that he’s well rested, and that the Roach Eskel saw last is the one he’s travelling with now, but those should be safe assumptions.

“That’s my guess,” Vesemir agrees. “I would suggest telling Jaskier and Lambert.”

Eskel very carefully doesn’t flinch. “I will,” he promises. It’s not a lie – Vesemir would be able to spot that at fifty paces, never mind a bare three feet away – but he wants it to be. He doesn’t want to see Jaskier shut down again. He’d been doing so well. Eskel swallows.

“Go,” Vesemir says, and it’s an order but it’s soft. The softest his voice gets, at least. “Eat. Tell them. You’ll be needed when he arrives.”

“Yeah.” Eskel gathers the bread as well as some of the other things he’d grabbed. Vesemir doesn’t comment further, just steps to the side and lets him go with his haul.

If he’s dragging his feet the whole way back to Jaskier’s bedroom, well. No one else needs to know that.

* * *

He waits until they’ve finished eating to mention it. Mostly because he’s a coward, but also partially because Jaskier had been so ravenous he hadn’t wanted to ruin his appetite. He’d need the strength.

But Lambert is on to him, he can tell. His brother has been throwing him odd looks the whole time they’ve been eating. He’s pretending not to see them, wanting to wait until Jaskier is finished, at least. As soon as the bard makes a satisfied sound and leans back on his arms, Lambert is speaking.

“What is it?” he asks. Blunt and straight to the point, as usual. Eskel scowls at him, but Lambert just looks back, stoic.

Eskel sighs. “Vesemir saw Geralt coming up the trail.” He watches Jaskier as he speaks. “He’ll be here around midnight, is what Vesemir guessed.”

Jaskier’s eyes squeeze shut, and his heart rate spikes. Lambert turns to him, hand hovering to touch; Eskel leans forward in his chair, ready to go to him as soon as Jaskier gives the word. But he doesn’t; the bard sucks in a deep, shuddering breath, and then another, and slowly, his heart calms. He calms. He opens his eyes again and looks…determined.

“Alright,” he says. “I supposed he’ll probably need help with the supplies.”

Eskel’s mouth works for a moment. “Yes,” he finally manages to spit out. “He – yes, he will. But Lambert and I can – ”

He’s not even sure what he’s offering. He and Lambert can what? Help Geralt with supplies, sure, that’s a given. But – keep Geralt away from Jaskier?  _ Bring _ Geralt to Jaskier? What else could they be doing?

Jaskier holds up a hand and shakes his head. “I…I should talk to him,” he says, and even though his voice wavers just a little, he sounds resolute. “I  _ need _ to talk to him.”

Lambert gives Eskel a look that clearly asks  _ do you think that’s a good idea? _ Eskel shrugs in response.

They still don’t know what happened, not really. Maybe Jaskier is wrong, and talking to Geralt is a terrible idea; but maybe he’s right, and he should talk to Geralt. Neither of them can pass a judgement on it, not without forcing Jaskier to tell them exactly what happened. Which Eskel would never do; he’s certain Lambert never would, either.

“Alright.” Eskel nods and gives Jaskier a small smile. “We have a few hours, still, before he arrives.”

Jaskier grins and beckons him over to the bed. “However shall we pass the time?” he asks, complete with a coy smirk, and Eskel rolls his eyes while Lambert buries his face in Jaskier’s shoulder to laugh.

He returns to the bed, though. Of course he does.

* * *

Around midnight, Lambert gets up and gets mostly dressed. His come-covered shirt stays where it is. “May as well check,” he says. “If I’m not back in twenty minutes, come down.”

Eskel nods his agreement, and Jaskier makes an affirmative noise where he’s half-dozing against Eskel’s chest. Once Lambert’s gone, Jaskier rubs a hand across his face and sits up with a small yawn.

“If you want to sleep, you can,” Eskel offers. Part of him can’t help but worry that Jaskier wants to avoid this entirely but doesn’t want to seem cowardly or weak to them. As if they would ever think such a thing of him – not after how they met him, especially not after so many years of knowing him.

Jaskier shakes his head. “No,” he says. He gets out of bed and starts casting around for his clothes. “May as well be dressed,” he explains when he catches Eskel’s confused look. “He’ll be here soon, even if he’s not here now. We’ve spent enough time naked, I think.”

He’s grinning, though he’s clearly trying not to, affecting a serious face. Eskel snorts and stands to help him find clothes to put on. Once they’re dressed, Eskel sits back on the edge of the bed while Jaskier perches on the chair near the table.

It’s quiet for a moment. Then Jaskier sighs.

“We fought,” he says. “It was…stupid. But it wasn’t at all, at the same time.”

Eskel bites his cheek and nods. Jaskier is looking at his hands, not at him, and goes silent again for several long moments.

“We just need to talk,” Jaskier finally finishes.

“Alright,” Eskel agrees. “Lambert and I can handle supplies, then, and you two can talk.”

Never mind that he and Lambert will be slow to get the supplies in if they’re too busy listening for the smallest sound of something going wrong. As long as the supplies make it into the castle, it’ll be fine. Vesemir can stuff it for one night.

Jaskier hums. “Okay.”

Silence returns while they wait for the allotted twenty minutes to pass. It’s not as heavy as the previous silences, before Jaskier told them anything, but it’s not as light as those even just a handful of hours ago, either. Eskel ignores the prickling at his neck.

“We should probably go down,” Eskel finally says, when enough time has passed. It feels like the shortest and longest twenty minutes of his life, all at once.

Jaskier nods and stands, grabbing his cloak. Eskel stands as well but grabs Jaskier’s wrist before he can reach the door. He pulls the bard back and tilts his head to kiss him, soft and chaste. Jaskier melts into the affection, one of his hands coming up to cup Eskel’s jaw.

“I love you,” Eskel murmurs.

Jaskier smiles, a small thing, right against his mouth. “I love you too,” he whispers back. “Come on.”

He shakes his wrist free of Eskel’s grip, but grabs his hand instead. Eskel threads their fingers together and allows himself to be pulled out of the bedroom and down the hall.

As soon as they reach the top of the stairs, Eskel feels the temperature change; they have the door propped open, then. Jaskier shivers a little, but nothing terrible, and they descend the stairs together. The closer to the door they get, the more they can hear; Roach’s hooves on the stone in the courtyard, Lambert grumbling something about the cold. Vesemir is standing at the door and turns to look at them as they reach the base of the stairs.

He doesn’t say anything, just nods at them, then steps out of the door. There’s some sort of greeting exchanged – Eskel can’t hear it clearly past a sudden whistle of wind – and then the sound of a wagon creaking as it’s unhooked.

He and Jaskier step out onto the steps, and at the sound of their footsteps, Geralt looks up. Eskel expects a myriad of things of him; from shock to hurt to confusion. He doesn’t expect  _ rage _ .

Geralt turns to Vesemir, voice a growl, angry like Eskel hasn’t heard him in – decades, probably. “What the  _ fuck _ is the bard doing here?”

_ The bard. _ Sure, they all call him that – it’s what he  _ is _ – but the tone in Geralt’s voice is all wrong. As if Jaskier is nothing  _ more _ than a bard, as if he’s not the singular most important thing to them, as if he’s not the only real, true bright spot any of them can look forward to, even Vesemir. Eskel feels a reactionary rage building in his chest even before he hears the broken noise that breaks free of Jaskier’s throat.

“It is as much his home as it is yours, Geralt,” Vesemir answers, and he’s angry too; Eskel is soothed, just a little, knowing that even Vesemir will rile to defend Jaskier. “The passes are about to close for the season. Make your decision.”

There’s a tense pause, silence only broken by the howling wind. Eskel feels the way Jaskier is shaking next to him, and wants more than anything to comfort him, but he has to see what Geralt says.

“I’ll stay,” Geralt finally spits, clearly upset.

“Wise choice. Go stable your horse.” Vesemir’s tone brooks no argument. Geralt grabs Roach’s reins and leads her in the direction of the stables.

Jaskier lets go of Eskel’s hand and runs inside. Vesemir turns to see it happen; he waves Eskel inside as well, and he takes off after him.

He catches up at the top of the stairs. Much like the last time Jaskier had run from them, what feels like a lifetime ago now, Jaskier allows himself to be stopped, to be held. Eskel tucks the bard’s face into his neck and wraps his arms as tightly as he safely can around him.

Jaskier’s not crying, but it’s a near thing. Eskel can feel it in the way every one of his breaths shakes out of his chest.

There are no words for Eskel to offer him. Even affection and comfort feel as if they would be cheap right now. So, instead, he slowly starts moving toward his room. Jaskier allows himself to be moved. It’s awkward, and slow-going, but Eskel doesn’t comment and doesn’t change the way he’s wrapped around Jaskier. When they finally make it to his room, it’s rather easy to sit on his bed and pull Jaskier into his lap.

He comes willingly, still without any sound, just those shaky breaths. Eskel sits up against the headboard, presses his face into Jaskier’s neck, and holds him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love all of you very much! :D


	7. chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When Jaskier wakes up, he’s alone._
> 
> Things continue to not get better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more whump!!! we love to see it
> 
> also, a lot of these chapters are pretty short. just a fair warning for you.

When Jaskier wakes up, he’s alone.

He also feels like he’s been trampled. His whole body aches, especially his head, and his eyes are gritty. It feels very much like he drank too much and then cried himself to sleep, but he didn’t do either of those things. No, he fell asleep in Eskel’s arms, stone-cold sober and shaking like a leaf but not crying.

There’s no telling why his tears decided to up and disappear on him. But there had been no crying last night, as much as he’d wanted to. ( _ Needed _ to, if he’s honest.)

He rolls to his side and groans. Judging by the light, it’s probably damn near ten in the morning. Which means he really should get up and go downstairs and eat. All he  _ wants _ to do is lay in Eskel’s bed and be miserable.

Also, he’s not exactly keen on running into Geralt by accident. He’d been perfectly willing to swallow his pride and his hurt and talk to him last night, but.  _ But. _

_ What the  _ fuck _ is the bard doing here? _

_ If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take  _ you _ off my hands! _

Jaskier presses his palms into his eyes. It hurts, doesn’t help the grittiness at all, but it’s a distraction. Physical pain is easier to focus on than the splintering pieces of his heart right now. And that’s a dangerous line of thought, he knows, but he can’t  _ stop _ it right now. At least he’s pretty sure neither Eskel nor Lambert will let him get into the stores of terrible homebrew. Or, if they allow it, they won’t let him do anything like what he did in Hołopole.

Somehow, he doesn’t think getting raging, blackout drunk while Geralt is in the same building as him is the brightest idea.

He groans again, rubbing a hand harshly across his face, then sits up. He’s still dressed from last night; the only thing Eskel took off of him was his boots and his cloak. Looking around the room, he finds the boots by the door and the cloak piled over a chair. Not that he needs either right now, but he may as well know where they are.

“Fuck,” he mutters. For a split second, he wonders if any of them would take him back down the mountain.

Of course, they probably would. But then whoever agreed to chaperone him down wouldn’t be able to come back up. Vesemir had said it last night – the passes are about to close for the season. It’ll be a handful of days, maybe a week, before the snow blocks them in for the next two to four months, depending.

Basically, unless he wants to keep Eskel or Lambert from their home this winter, he’s stuck. Just like Geralt is stuck, now too.

Wonderful. He groans once more, decides that no, he really  _ doesn’t _ need to rejoin the living today, and lays back down.

* * *

The second time he wakes, Jaskier is no longer alone. Eskel is sitting up in the bed next to him, reading.

“Feeling any better?” Eskel asks quietly.

Jaskier squints at him. “Is that a trick question?”

Eskel snorts and sets his book aside before reaching over and hauling Jaskier into his lap rather abruptly. Jaskier lets out a very undignified screech, but settles quickly once Eskel’s arms wrap tight around his waist. He drops his head to the Witcher’s shoulder and sighs.

“Want to go into detail yet?”

Jaskier flinches.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

Silence reigns for a moment, nothing but the sound of their breathing. Eskel’s has matched with Jaskier’s, like it usually does when they’re pressed this close.

“He hasn’t left his room,” Eskel murmurs after a while. “Marched up to it as soon as Roach was stabled and hasn’t come out for anything since.”

Jaskier doesn’t quite mean to let his breath hitch, but it does anyway. Eskel holds him a little tighter, as if reading his mind, and murmurs, “I can hear him moving around in there.”

“Mm,” Jaskier hums in lieu of a response. What could he even say? After a minute, he decides that maybe a subject change would be best. “Where’s Lambert?”

“Building a new training dummy.” Eskel doesn’t allow Jaskier the space to pull away and look at him. “He left the original one a stinking pile of ash this morning. Told Vesemir it was the training dummy or he’d light up Geralt’s door, and Geralt immediately after.”

Jaskier can’t help himself. He  _ laughs _ , and it’s loud and hysterical and  _ empty _ , and he can feel the way Eskel freezes, the concern rolling off of him in waves, but he can’t stop. He laughs, and laughs, and laughs, until his chest aches and he can’t breathe and suddenly, it’s not laughter anymore, it’s tears.

_ There they are _ , he thinks, irrationally,  _ just had to think about Lambert killing Geralt. _

Eskel makes a soft, helpless noise, and Jaskier just buries his face in the Witcher’s neck and cries.

* * *

Once Jaskier has exhausted his tears, Eskel wipes his face and begs him to come down to dinner. Jaskier doesn’t  _ want _ to go, but he also can’t make himself say no to Eskel, so he changes into clean clothes with minimal fussing and follows him downstairs.

He pretends he doesn’t hear the sound of Geralt swearing as they pass his bedroom. Eskel does, too.

Dinner is a quiet and awkward affair. Jaskier feels the tension like a physical touch, sees the worried glances Eskel and Lambert keep exchanging. He can also tell that Vesemir is listening for Geralt; as stoic as his face is, his head is just slightly tilted toward the stairs.

All he does is scarf down a bowl and a half of stew and stare metaphorical holes into the table, and by the time he’s finished, he’s exhausted. “I’m going to bed,” he murmurs, finally, when he can’t think of any further way to delay it aside from eating more food he doesn’t want.

Eskel looks up at him, not quite able to smooth out his worried expression before Jaskier sees it; Jaskier gives him a half-hearted smile, and Lambert the same, before he trudges up the stairs. He sticks close to the far wall, even well past Geralt’s bedroom. As soon as he reaches his own room, he collapses face-first onto his bed with a gusting sigh.

“Fuck,” he mutters into the sheets. “ _ Fuck _ .”

It takes more willpower than it should to stand back up and undress for bed, but he does it somehow. Of course, even with as exhausted as he feels, as soon as he’s laid down, his thoughts turn into a storm. He squeezes his eyes shut to try and block them out, to no success. He hears Geralt in his head, all the echoing words from before now intwined with  _ what the fuck is the bard doing here? _ And he hears his own thoughts from before, the  _ what ifs _ , the  _ maybe if I just…  _ and so on, over and over again, a cacophony in his head that refuses to settle, or to even become something semi-coherent.

He doesn’t know how long he lays there, drowning in his own selfish, self-hating thoughts, before there’s a knock on his bedroom door and it opens just a bit. He wrestles out of where he’s pulled the blankets over his head to look, expecting Eskel. Instead, it’s Lambert, standing in the space of the door looking both determined and timid all at once.

“Come in,” Jaskier says, softly. Lambert shuffles in and closes the door behind himself, then stands there awkwardly for a moment.

Jaskier wants to roll his eyes but doesn’t have the energy for the snark. He holds up the blankets in invitation instead.

Lambert shucks his own clothes at record speed and crawls into the space Jaskier has created for him, wrapping around Jaskier tightly. If Jaskier didn’t know better, he’d swear Lambert has more than four limbs. He huffs an almost-laugh at the thought and buries his face into Lambert’s chest.

With Lambert in his bed, radiating heat and comfort, the thoughts start to calm. Jaskier sighs in relief and relaxes into the Witcher’s arms, nuzzling affectionately against the chest hair tickling his nose. Lambert just pulls him a little bit closer and presses his lips to Jaskier’s head in response.

“I love you,” Lambert murmurs. “If we have to love you twice as much to make up for – for – ”

Jaskier squeezes his eyes tighter shut against the tears he can feel threatening and presses his forehead a little harder into Lambert’s chest. “It’s okay,” he whispers. Lambert seems to understand that he’s talking about the fact that the Witcher can’t say the words, and not just  _ everything _ .

“I love you,” he repeats.

Jaskier presses a kiss to where he can feel Lambert’s heartbeat, faint and slow but steady and present all the same. “I love you too,” he murmurs.

* * *

The next morning, Lambert insists upon a lute lesson. Barely ten minutes after they’re finished with that, Vesemir arrives asking for help in the library. After  _ that _ , Eskel drags him down to the courtyard to do some light practice with swords.

He’s not an idiot. He knows exactly what they’re doing, but he doesn’t have the energy nor the heart to call attention to it. So he doesn’t; instead, he just…goes along. Every moment of his day is filled with something, with nary a break until supper.

And he appreciates what they’re doing, he  _ does _ . It’s just…well, it doesn’t much matter, does it?

Geralt still hasn’t left his godsforsaken room.

None of them are talking about that, though. At least, not with Jaskier; he’s caught the tail ends of a few conversations, now, between the others. They’re worried, of course they are – about Jaskier, about Geralt, about what to do with the tension that hangs in the air like particularly heavy incense.

Jaskier would love to be able to suggest something. Every single time he tries to think of a solution, he finds himself with the nigh-unbearable urge to smash his head against a wall until he passes out.

Not exactly productive, that.

Eventually, he knows, Geralt will have to come out. He’s surviving off of trail rations in his room; Vesemir checked the pantries for anything missing that might mean he’s left in the dead of night, but nothing is gone. Jaskier wasn’t supposed to hear that conversation, either.

* * *

Three days pass like that.

Eskel, Lambert, and Vesemir do their best to keep Jaskier busy. After the second day, though,  _ he _ starts hiding in his room. It’s just – too much, all of it. The tension, the hushed conversations he’s not supposed to hear, the pleading looks – all of it. He loves them, they’re his  _ family _ , but it feels like slowly going insane to just keep letting them overwork themselves and him in some desperate bid for distraction.

His heart aches as much as his head, and he’s  _ tired _ .

Geralt still hasn’t left his room.

Vesemir is worried. Not even just  _ concerned _ , he’s outright worried; Jaskier has heard him, speaking quietly to Eskel. Geralt will run out of trail rations, if he hasn’t already. One of them has to get him out of his room, at least to get some food, if nothing else.

Lambert doesn’t have the patience. Eskel doesn’t have the willpower. Jaskier doesn’t have the fortitude, at this point. Which leaves Vesemir, and Jaskier didn’t hear the rest of that conversation, because Lambert had swooped in to interrupt. So he has no idea how Vesemir feels about that. He could guess, though.

But it’s noon – past it, actually – and Geralt has been in his room for nearly four days. Jaskier feels sick to his stomach just thinking of it. He very well can’t do anything about it himself – Vesemir had been right, he doesn’t have the courage, not right now – but he can help. He thinks.

Lambert is easy to find, considering he’s lurking around the tower at the end of the hallway of bedrooms and trying to pretend he’s not. Jaskier lets him think he’s gotten away with it, but only just.

“Come help me with sword practice,” he says. “So Vesemir can convince Geralt out for food.”

Lambert flinches.

“Yes, I know,” Jaskier says, but doesn’t elaborate further. “Come on.”

Lambert goes straight to the courtyard; Jaskier stops in the common area, where Eskel and Vesemir are still having a hushed conversation.

“Lambert and I will be outside for at least an hour,” Jaskier announces, as pointed as he can manage. “I assume that will be enough.”

Eskel’s mouth drops open. “Jaskier – ”

“Plenty,” Vesemir interrupts. He’s giving Jaskier a peculiar look – something stuck between pride and unease. Jaskier nods at him and turns to head after Lambert.

“Been a while since you and I sparred,” the Witcher says, and it's meant to be teasing, meant to be some of Lambert’s usual banter. Instead, it falls flat and to the side, straight into  _ cautious _ instead.

Jaskier snorts, and there’s more  _ bitterness _ than  _ humor _ in the sound. “If you go easy on me, Witcher, I will not hesitate to stab you for it.” He’s serious; apparently, Lambert knows that, because he stands up straighter, wobbly smile fading into a straight-faced focus. Jaskier grabs the sword meant for him – it’s a little shorter and a bit lighter, something Vesemir found and repaired because he thought it would suit Jaskier better. He’d been right, of course.

At this point, Jaskier is more than passable with several kinds of blades. Of course, he’d known how to use a dagger well before his first winter at Kaer Morhen – but here, over the last years, he’s learned how to use many weapons, and well, at that. He’ll still probably never be able to best a Witcher in a true fight, but he can hold his own very well in a training round. They haven’t had to go easy on him for his safety in years.

If Lambert chose  _ now _ to go easy on him, when Lambert is the one who beat him again and again the winter he was recovering from a flu? Yeah, Jaskier would  _ absolutely _ stab him for it. He’s fairly sure Vesemir would just patch up the wound and scold Lambert for getting it, too, which is as good as permission.

Jaskier shakes himself out of his thoughts. He tests the angle of the sword in his hands a few times, until it’s comfortable, and settles into a stance. Lambert copies him. There’s a beat, a single breath where they make eye contact – an acknowledgement of a beginning, essentially, and then they’re both moving.

His primary teacher in sword fighting has been Lambert, so Jaskier knows his patterns. Of course, that also means Lambert knows  _ his _ .

Eventually, he loses track of time. It’s exactly what he wants, what he  _ needs _ . To be forced out of his head and into his body, instead, focused entirely on the burn of his muscles and the sweat stinging his eyes. Lambert is hardly even winded yet, the bastard, but that’s normal for these sessions. Usually, Jaskier would take it out of his hide later – but he doesn’t even have the desire for  _ that. _

He stops the train of thought before it can even start.

Not now.

Body, not mind.

The clash of their swords rings through the courtyard, loud and screeching. After so many years, both here and out on the Path with – with…well, out on the Path, Jaskier has learned well how to tune out the painful noise. Lambert gets him on the backfoot several times, and then they reset; but Jaskier also gets Lambert on the backfoot. They’re so far even, if Jaskier has been counting right.

Not that it matters. There’s no winner in training, not really, because there isn’t a  _ loser _ in training. The point is to hone skills. When it’s the others' training, it’s to make sure they return to the Path prepared; when it’s one of them squaring off with Jaskier, it’s more…fun? Or, if not  _ fun _ , it’s less imperative that everything is done correctly. After all, Jaskier won’t be fighting any monsters. And it’s highly unlikely he’ll come up against people trained in sword work – at least, not as trained as him, not anymore.

He’s usually running  _ away  _ from those types, nowadays. Also, as good as he is with a sword, now – he still prefers his dagger. Always will, probably.

Finally, when he can almost no longer see past the sweat, Lambert forces them to break. Jaskier drops his sword and doubles over, hands on his knees, panting. Lambert makes a concerned noise, but Jaskier waves him off. He’s fine, just winded and overworked. Nothing he’s not dealt with a dozen times this winter alone, never mind every other one he’s spent at the keep. He just has to catch his breath, wipe the sweat from his face.

So he’s distracted, too focused on his lungs and his eyes and the burn in his muscles to feel the hair prickling along his body. To recognize the electric sensation of magic, strong,  _ sudden  _ magic.

At least Lambert is just as taken off-guard as he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm only a tiny bit sorry for the cliffhanger :D
> 
> p l s comment if you have anything nice to say! i'm weirdly anxious and could use the distraction. love you all 💜


	8. chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There’s a_ crack _in the air like thunder – in the distance, Jaskier hears a rock side begin somewhere in the mountains – and then shouting from inside the castle._
> 
> An unexpected arrival complicates things even further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D

There’s a  _ crack _ in the air like thunder – in the distance, Jaskier hears a rock side begin somewhere in the mountains – and then shouting from inside the castle. Shouting even  _ he  _ can hear through and around the great stone walls.

Lambert doesn’t even look at him before taking off, sword still in hand. Jaskier ducks to the ground to snatch his own sword and follows.

The sound is coming from the direction of the kitchens. Lambert’s moving too fast, enough that Jaskier has lost sight of him by the time  _ he _ skids around the corner, just in time to see a portal snap closed with another  _ crack _ that shakes the walls.

For a moment, time seems to slow. There’s chaos here, in the absence of the magic still prickling at his skin. The sound of swords, of shouting, the tang of blood in the air – he can see Lambert, and then Eskel, and Geralt – and black, black-clad soldiers, and –

_ Cirilla. _

She’s standing in the center of the battle that’s suddenly sprung up in the dining hall, hands over her ears. Screaming.

It’s not a normal scream.

Jaskier drops his sword and runs. It’s as if there’s an earthquake, or maybe that’s the rockslide? Maybe the portal – or it’s  _ Ciri _ , fuck. He doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter. She’s not safe where she is, and he has to get her out.

He barely dodges a misplaced swing from one of the soldiers – black, black, why does that ring a bell – doesn’t matter, he has to get to Ciri. The screaming stops when his hands touch her, but she doesn’t move, and her mouth is still open, eyes vacant and terrified all at once.

Jaskier scoops her into his arms and runs.

* * *

He can’t be sure how he makes it to the tower with Ciri in his arms, but he does.

The sounds of fighting faded behind him a long while ago; he’s not sure if that means the battle is done, or if it’s just his stupid, awful human hearing shafting him as always. It hardly matters; they’re safe – at least, relatively. Safe up high, fighting behind them. Jaskier has his dagger, should worst come to worst. Hopefully, it does not.

Ciri is more important, though.

“Ciri, Cirilla, darling, it’s Jaskier,” he murmurs. She’s curled up in his arms, perched awkwardly across his thighs, hands tight enough to bruise around his shoulders. “Ciri, love, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” she whispers, and her voice is so quiet,  _ timid _ , nothing like she usually is. Jaskier has  _ never _ heard the princess this quiet. It makes his heart speed wildly, even more so than it already is.

“Good,” Jaskier coos. “Good, that’s good. Ciri, darling, can you tell me what happened?”

“Grandmother is dead,” Ciri croaks, more breath than words. “Grandfather, too.”

_ Shit fuck _ . Jaskier sucks in a breath. He can only hope that’s second-hand information, that Ciri didn’t  _ watch  _ them die, but he’s very well not going to fucking  _ ask _ . Not right now. Or, ever, maybe. To be decided later, anyway. “I’m so sorry, love, I am, but I’m so glad you’re safe.”

“Coën,” Ciri mumbles. “Coën, he – there was a charm. Something, it broke, and that…portal, but they followed us.”

Jaskier had put that much together, even though he hadn’t seen Coën in the fray downstairs. “Who are they, darling, do you know?”

Ciri starts to shake in his arms. He tightens his grip on her, shifting one arm to press around her waist and pull her into his chest. She turns her head and buries her face into his neck.

“Nilfgaard,” she mumbles.

Jaskier bites his tongue bloody to stop from saying anything.  _ Fuck _ .  _ Fuck, fuck, fuck _ . There had been rumors of Nilfgaard approaching the Yaruga, of aiming for either Sodden or Cintra – but they had just been  _ rumors _ . Nothing more, not from what Jaskier had heard.

But clearly, he’d heard  _ wrong _ . An assassination, though, that was – Nilfgaard wasn’t exactly known for the kind of subtlety involved in assassinations. Then again, he supposed they wouldn’t want to directly incur the wrath of both Cintra  _ and _ Skellige; even with their slow takeover of the south, it’s likely that the Skelliger Navy would have decimated their forces, at sea or on land.

He wonders if Mousesack survived.

He quickly pushes the thought away. Mousesack is his friend, but there are much more pressing matters, at present.

Wouldn’t be the first friend he’s lost to the godsforsaken machinations of greedy kings.

_ Fuck _ .

He’ll ask Coën, later. Much, much later.

“It’ll be alright, darling,” Jaskier murmurs. “You’re safe here, with me, okay? I promise you that, love.”

Ciri sniffles. She’s still shaking. “Will you sing?”

Jaskier’s chest aches fiercely. He hasn’t sung since Ard Carraigh.

“Of course, Ciri, of course I’ll sing for you. What would you like me to sing?”

She doesn’t speak. Instead, she begins to hum, an old,  _ old _ melody. A Cintran lullaby, one he’d heard Calanthe sing to her dozens of times; one he taught her to play on the piano, once.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Alright.”

So he sings.

* * *

There’s no telling how long he kneels there, holding the princess and singing. It doesn’t matter, anyway; much like how they got up to the tower, the end result is more important than the process.

Ciri falls asleep in his arms, slowly. First, her bruising grip on his shoulders releases; then she stops shaking, and after that, her vague humming along to his singing tapers off. Until finally, she’s limp in his hold, breathing soft and steady.

Jaskier still doesn’t let himself cry, and he keeps singing.

His voice is tired and creaking by the time he hears someone on the tower stairs. He tenses, wriggling one hand over to grasp the dagger in his doublet; there’s not a large chance that those soldiers survived a fight with Witchers, but it’s enough of a chance to be cautious, all the same.

But the footsteps aren’t running, and the closer they get, the more familiar they are. Eskel, Jaskier thinks. He keeps a grip on his dagger just in case.

The door at the top of the tower stairs creaks open. “Jaskier.”

“Eskel.”

“It’s safe,” the Witcher murmurs. “The soldiers are dead. We’re all fine. Coën was injured in the fight before he could open that portal, but Vesemir is patching him up.”

Jaskier lets out a sigh he hadn’t realized he was holding in. “Good.” He turns to look over his shoulder and sees Eskel is standing near the door, looking unsure. “It’s alright,” he murmurs. “She’s asleep now.”

“Who  _ is _ she?”

Jaskier looks away, back down to Ciri. Her head has shifted to his arm, now. “Princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, the Lion Cub of Cintra,” he says. Carefully, he shifts from his knees to a crouch, then to his feet, hefting Ciri along with him. She mumbles in her sleep and shifts, but doesn’t wake. Jaskier turns to face Eskel, who now looks flabbergasted. Jaskier sighs again.

“Geralt’s child surprise,” he finishes.

Eskel freezes, and Jaskier feels as if he watches a shutter go down over the Witcher's face; his eyes go dim, and he scowls. Jaskier is too tired to try and parse it, to even consider asking. Instead, he marches slowly toward the door. Eskel opens it for him seemingly on instinct, and follows him down the tower, but doesn’t say another word.

Jaskier doesn’t either. He doesn’t know what he’d say, anyway.

Everyone is gathered in the dining hall, still. There’s no evidence of the soldiers left aside from streaks of blood across the floor. Coën is laid across the table, face pale and grey with toxicity while Vesemir stitches a wound in his thigh, another on his chest already bandaged; Lambert hovers nearby, clearly on errand duty; Geralt is collapsed into a chair, looking exactly as you’d expect someone who has been isolated for half a week and then fought soldiers to the death to look.

They all turn to look as Eskel and Jaskier enter. Vesemir grunts an acknowledgement and returns to patching Coën up, while Coën groans and squeezes his eyes shut. Lambert continues to stare.

Geralt growls, and then all eyes are on  _ him _ .

He’s looking at Jaskier, at the princess asleep in his arms, and Jaskier’s stomach drops out. No. Geralt can’t  _ possibly  _ – but he does. The Witcher levers himself out of his chair, still snarling, and shoves past Eskel, nearly jostling Jaskier and Ciri in the process. Eskel tries to grab him, to stop him, saying something only the two of them – and maybe Lambert – can hear, but to no avail.

Geralt snarls again and stomps all the way straight back up to his bedroom.

If Jaskier weren’t carrying incredibly precious cargo in his arms, he’d just outright collapse. Everything is just  _ so much _ right now.

Lambert seems to realize how uncertain Jaskier’s hold on himself is. He sets down the bandages in his hands and crosses the room, reaching over Ciri to grasp Jaskier’s shoulder. “It’s fine,” he says, voice low and meant to be soothing. It’s also a fucking  _ lie _ .

Everyone in the room knows it.

Jaskier sucks in a breath through his teeth. “A room,” he says. “We need to set up a room. Two, actually – for both of them.”

“Coën will be staying with me, tonight,” Vesemir says. “So I can monitor him.” Coën doesn’t offer any objection – frankly, he seems only vaguely lucid, blood starting to stain his chest bandage – so Jaskier nods his agreement. One less thing that has to happen  _ right now, _ he’ll take it.

“Sit down,” Lambert instructs, and points to a chair. Not the one Geralt has just vacated. “Rest for a moment. Eskel and I will handle it.”

Jaskier nods agreeably and sits down as carefully as he can in the indicated chair. Ciri snuffles again and shifts, turning her face back into Jaskier’s neck, but stays asleep. Jaskier is grateful. He tips his head back and closes his eyes, trying to find something –  _ anything _ to focus on, anything that isn’t his reality right now.

Vesemir, apparently, does not see his attempts.

“What is going on, bard?”

Jaskier groans softly. “Too  _ fucking _ much,” he hisses. “Be more specific, Witcher.”

Normally, Vesemir would reprimand him. For the title, if not the tone. But he doesn’t, now; instead, he just sighs and sets to wrapping a bandage around Coën’s stitched thigh.

“What would Nilfgaard want with a teenage girl?”

Jaskier snorts. “ _ A teenage girl _ , she’s hardly just that.” He adjusts his hold on Ciri so he can rub a hand across his face. “She’s the sole heir to the throne of Cintra, and they killed the king and queen. I’d imagine they likely want her dead.”

“Messy,” Vesemir mutters. “Complicated, and messy.”

Jaskier laughs, an empty, humorless thing. “She’s Geralt’s now, you know. His child surprise. That’s why I gave Coën that charm – the one that opened that portal. In case something ever went terribly wrong, and he had to get Ciri out of Cintra.” He remembers the conversation, sitting with Coën in front of the fire, giving him the charm the next day. He’d never thought in a million years that Coën would actually have to use the charm, not like  _ this _ .

“Geralt is all she has left, now,” Jaskier says, voice cracking in the middle. Tears spring to his eyes and he squeezes them shut in a vain attempt to stop them from falling. “And she’s never even met him. Not sure she knows who he is, in fact. Not likely, considering Calanthe.”

Vesemir is quiet for a long time. Jaskier tries to count his breaths, to focus on anything that isn’t the burning need to weep.

Ciri shifts in his arms and begins to whimper.

“Hey,” he says, “hey, love, you’re okay. I’ve got you.” He pulls her a little closer, hides his face in her ashen hair, and starts to rock gently. “I’ve got you. It’s going to be okay.”

* * *

Jaskier ends up sleeping in the room Lambert and Eskel made up for Ciri, unable to stomach the idea of leaving her alone in an unfamiliar place. When he wakes, she’s already up, sitting with her knees pulled to her chest and staring blankly into space.

He watches her for a moment, entirely unsure if she’s aware that he’s awake; she appears completely lost in her own thoughts. It’s clear, too, that she didn’t sleep well – bags under her eyes, skin too pale. After a long moment, he sighs, and her eyes flash to him.

“Morning,” he murmurs.

Her lip trembles. Jaskier sucks in a breath and sits up just in time to catch her as she topples into him, sobbing brokenly.

“Oh darling,” he murmurs, pushing his fingers through her hair. “I know. It’s alright, love, I’m right here.”

“I – I j-just,” Ciri gasps, the words shattered by the way she was still sobbing.

“It’s okay, darling,” Jaskier murmurs, as soothing as he can. He keeps petting her hair and starts to rock, just a little. “It’s alright. Just let it happen, love, let yourself feel it.”

It takes a long time, but eventually Ciri’s sobs taper off, and she’s able to breathe normally again. She doesn’t sit up from Jaskier’s arms for a while after that, and he doesn’t make her. Instead, he just keeps petting through her hair, braiding and unbraiding little sections, and occasionally murmuring softly to her. Slowly, the trembling stops as well, and she brings a hand between them to wipe at her face.

When she speaks, she’s still pressed against him. “What is this place?”

“Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier answers. “Former home of the School of the Wolf. It was a school for Witchers, where they were made and trained.”

“So Coën grew up here?”

Jaskier shakes his head even though Ciri can’t see him. “No,” he says. “Coën comes from the School of the Griffin, which was headquartered at Kaer Seren.”

“Why did he bring us here, then? Instead of Kaer Seren?”

Jaskier sighs a little. “Kaer Seren is gone,” he says softly. “It was destroyed. Coën is – ” he stops to consider for a moment, then decides that she may as well know, “ – Coën is likely the last Griffin Witcher alive.”

“But not the last  _ Witcher _ ,” Ciri deduces.

“No,” Jaskier smiles, a little sadly, and shakes his head again. “No, there’s a handful of Witchers left from other schools.”

“Do you know all of them?”

“A good few of them, at least,” Jaskier says. Ciri makes a familiar, considering noise, and the smile on his face widens a little. “What would you like to know?”

“What are their names? What schools are there – or,  _ were _ there?” She finally sits back, pushing her hair out of her face. Her eyes are a little bloodshot, and her cheeks are puffy, but otherwise she looks – okay. Tired, but the brightness is returning to her eyes, the sharpness he’s used to.

“There were several schools,” he starts. “The Griffins, in the mountains between Kovir and Poviss; the Wolves, here in the Blue Mountains; the Vipers, in the Tir Torchair mountains; the Bears in the Amell mountains; and the Cats at Stygga Citadel in Ebbing, though they have the Dyn Marv Caravan now.”

“Lot of mountains,” Ciri murmurs.

“Yes. Witchers are – ” he pauses, and before he can come up with a delicate way to phrase it, Ciri finishes it for him.

“Hated and considered monsters,” she says bluntly.

Jaskier blinks. “Yes,” he agrees. “They’re necessary, deeply so, but people are afraid of things they do not understand.” A thought springs to his mind, unbidden:  _ people will be afraid of you, with the power you must possess. _ He sees Pavetta in his mind’s eye and forces himself not to flinch. “The schools were all in hidden places, easily defensible in case of attack. Unfortunately, it still didn’t save them. Only the Cats survived, and even then, it’s barely survival.”

“Caravan,” Ciri says. “They’re nomads? Do they still… _ make _ Witchers?”

Jaskier shrugs. “They are, now, but I don’t know.”

“Do you know any Cat Witchers?”

“I do,” Jaskier nods. “Only one, really, but I’ve met others briefly.”

“Tell me the names of all of the Witchers you know.”

Jaskier grins at the demand in her voice. The longer they talk, the more like herself Ciri looks; he knows it won’t last – it can’t, not with everything looming over them – but he’s glad she can have this small moment of peace.

“Well, you know Coën already. The Cat is Aiden, and I know one Viper, Letho. Never met any Bears – don’t know if any of them are left.”

“And the Wolves?”

Jaskier nods. “The four Wolves,” he says, unable to keep the affection from his voice. “Vesemir is the oldest, he has gray hair; he trained the others, when the school was functional. Of the other three, Eskel is the oldest – but only barely. He’s the one with the big scars across the right side of his face. Lambert is the youngest, he’s got a beard – though nothing like Coën’s. And….” At the point where he should mention Geralt, he stops.

He’s not sure he wants to have this conversation with her. It  _ has _ to happen, he knows – and really, if Geralt won’t do it, he’s the next best option; he was at that betrothal feast, too. Plus, he  _ knows _ Ciri. While he only spends about a week to two weeks in Cintra a year, it’s still regular, and even as just a music tutor, he’s become privy to many of Ciri’s thoughts over the years.

“Geralt,” Ciri mumbles, interrupting his thoughts.

“You know about Geralt?”

Ciri shakes her head. “Not really – just…. When the – when….” She swallows hard, and Jaskier reaches out to grasp her hand. She lets him, squeezes back when he squeezes her fingers. “Coën said, before the soldiers got to us,  _ I have to get you to Geralt _ . Since you said  _ four _ Wolves, and hadn’t mentioned him yet….”

“Smart girl,” Jaskier says, reaching up with the hand she’s not holding to pinch her cheek. She rolls her eyes and swats at his hand. “Geralt – the  _ White Wolf. _ I’m sure, despite your grandmother’s best attempts, you’ve heard my songs.”

Ciri nods. “Jaskier, why…why did Coën bring me here? Why…why did he have to get me to Geralt?”

Jaskier takes a deep breath. “Well,” he says. “That’s…it’s a bit of a long story, darling.”

“I’ve got time.”

“I know,” Jaskier smiles. “But you’re not the only one who needs to hear it. Let’s go down to breakfast, and I’ll tell you there, alright?”

Ciri nods, but she looks conflicted.

“What is it, darling?”

“I…don’t have any other clothes.”

Jaskier pauses. Well, that’s something he hadn’t thought about. Fuck. “Huh,” he says. “Well. Here, stand up for a moment.” He climbs off the bed, and she follows, standing in front of him. He sizes her up for a moment; she’s obviously smaller than him, but he’s the smallest person in the keep – and the one with the most clothes. “It’s not ideal, but I think we could tailor some of my clothes to fit you. At least, until spring.”

“Until spring?” Ciri asks, and Jaskier’s stomach drops to his feet.

“Oh,” he mutters dumbly. “I – I forgot. You and Coën came through that portal – we’re very high in the mountains, darling. All of the passes are blocked with snow by now. We’re – there’s no way down or out until they clear.”

Ciri looks suddenly panicked, and Jaskier quickly wraps an arm around her, giving her a place to bury her face and breathe for a moment.

“What – what if…,” she starts, muffled by his shirt. She doesn’t continue for a long while, though, and Jaskier begins to worry what could be going through her head.

“What if  _ what _ ?”

She leans back a little to look up at him. “What if no one likes me?”

Jaskier can’t help himself; he snorts. Ciri looks affronted for a split second, but he pulls her closer and presses a kiss to her hair. “Darling,” he murmurs. “First of all –  _ I  _ like you already. So does Coën. As for the Wolves – well. I can’t imagine any reason they  _ won’t _ like you.”

“Even Geralt?” Her voice is so quiet, gone back to the uncharacteristic timidity, and Jaskier’s heart aches fiercely.

“Even Geralt,” Jaskier says, even though he’s deeply uncertain. He has…no idea, frankly, how Geralt would take to Ciri; he wants to say he would love her, simply for the fact that she’s so headstrong and vibrant. But there’s too much doubt in his heart, now, because of the mountain, because of the way Geralt has been behaving. He’d never have thought Geralt capable of anything he’s done lately. “Don’t worry about that, love. Everything will work out. Now, let’s go find you some clothes.”

“And then you’ll tell me –  _ us _ , about…everything?” she asks.

Jaskier nods. “And then I’ll tell you all about everything.”

* * *

A pair of Jaskier’s breeches from several winters ago that no longer fit, and an even older, worn tunic are the smallest things Jaskier can find. They still swamp Ciri, as slight as she is, but they’ll have to do for now – Jaskier folds and pins them until they stay on her properly, and then they go down to the dining hall.

It’s a little late, but everyone is still at the table. Without even thinking, Jaskier sits Ciri down next to Coën – who is looking much better now than he did last night, thank the gods – and sits on her other side. Ciri doesn’t object, instead just taking the plate Coën loads up for her without comment.

“Morning,” Lambert says, a little cautious.

“Morning,” Jaskier replies, and starts piling food on his own plate. For a few heartbeats, no one else speaks. Jaskier leaves it until he’s gotten all of the food he wants, then sighs. “How are you feeling, Coën?”

“Alright,” he answers, as soft-spoken as always. “Vesemir is as good a medic as any.”

Ciri freezes for a moment, then takes a deep breath. Jaskier forces himself not to hover. “Were you hurt badly, Coën?” she asks softly.

Coën looks at her and smiles. “No, Princess.” All of them aside from Ciri know it’s a lie; no one says anything. “And even if I had been, I wouldn’t regret it for a moment, knowing you’re safe.”

Ciri frowns, but nods and doesn’t say any more. It’s silent once more for several minutes while she and Jaskier start on their breakfast. Jaskier can see the way Eskel, Lambert, and Vesemir keep looking at each other; he knows their patience will run out soon. He tries to delay the inevitable by shoveling food into his mouth.

It’s an unsuccessful endeavor.

“Jaskier,” Vesemir says, and it’s that tone he uses when he expects to be listened to. Jaskier hums and swallows his latest bite before looking up to the eldest Witcher. “There seems to be a great deal that we don’t know.” He gestures to Lambert and Eskel. “I assume you would be able to fill us in.”

Jaskier sighs. “Yes,” he answers, and pushes his plate a bit away. He won’t be able to finish eating until after this is done, if he’ll be able to continue eating at all.

“Maybe start with a proper introduction?” Eskel suggests. Jaskier gives him a small smile.

“Of course,” he says. “This is Cirilla Fi – ”

“If you actually use my full name, I’ll stab you with this fork,” Ciri interrupts sharply. Jaskier chokes a bit, something between a gasp and a laugh. When he looks at her, she looks  _ very _ serious.

“Of course,” he nods. “I – ”

“I’m Cirilla,” she interrupts a second time. “Princess and Lion Cub of Cintra. You can call me Ciri.”

There’s a split second of shocked silence, but then Eskel pipes back up. “I’m – ”

“Eskel,” Ciri finishes. “Jaskier told me about all of you already. And you’re Lambert,” she nods toward Lambert, “and you’re Vesemir.” She nods again toward Vesemir this time.

Another pause, before Lambert finally chimes in. “I like you, kid,” he says, easily, and when Jaskier looks to him, there’s an easy smirk on his face; it’s betrayed by the small furrow in his brow, the way the corners of his eyes don’t shift, but Ciri won’t notice those things.

“You’re being impolite, Princess,” Coën chides, and Ciri snorts.

“We’re not in  _ court _ anymore, Coën,” she says, and there’s sadness behind the bitterness in her tone. Jaskier doesn’t mention it, and neither does anyone else.

“She’s got a point,” Jaskier says, and grins when Ciri gives him a quick, relieved glance. “So, now that introductions are out of the way….”

“Why did Coën bring me here?”

Jaskier can practically feel the way Coën and Eskel hold their breath; he sighs lightly.

“Ciri, do you know what the Law of Surprise is?” Jaskier carefully ignores the way Eskel flinches – he really must ask about that, but  _ not now _ – and the intake of breath from Lambert.

Ciri frowns. “It’s…. Old. Grandmother used to call it  _ archaic. _ Surrendering claim to  _ something you have but do not know  _ to repay a life debt.”

“Exactly,” Jaskier nods. “It’s something that’s been around for all of time; there are many who say Destiny dictated it.”

“Grandmother always said destiny was horseshit,” Ciri mutters.

“Princess Cirilla,” Coën scolds. Meanwhile, Lambert chokes on a sip of water and Jaskier muffles a snort behind his hand.

“It very much is not,” Jaskier says, once he’s schooled his expression. “The Law of Surprise is the reason you came to be.”

Ciri looks at him, wide-eyed. “What?”

Jaskier nods. “When your grandmother was young, her first husband was saved from death by your father. He invoked the Law of Surprise, and when Roegner returned home, it was to find your grandmother had given birth to your mother.”

“So my mother… _ belonged _ to my father?” Ciri wrinkles her nose.

“No,” Jaskier shakes his head quickly. “No, that’s…much too literal. The Law binds people together – that’s all. It means their destinies are entwined, that their lives are meant to come together in some way. Nothing more – at least, not when it includes  _ people _ . The Law is known to result in things like gold or crops, as well.”

“That’s all well and good, bard,” Vesemir says. “But how, exactly, does it relate to the question the princess asked?”

Jaskier gives him a look. “Necessary backstory,” he explains. He turns back to Ciri.

“When your mother was of marrying age, there was a banquet held so her suitors could be introduced properly,” he says. “I’m sure you’ve seen the song and dance before.”

Ciri nods, though her nose wrinkles again. Jaskier decides to keep going, instead of asking what’s wrong. He can guess, anyway.

“I was invited to play at the banquet,” he continues. “And I brought Geralt along with me for – ah. Protection.” He steadfastly ignores the way Lambert snickers at him. Ciri gives him a questioning look, but he doesn’t pay attention to it, either. “Your father – well, for lack of a better word, he crashed the party.”

That pulls more snickers out of Lambert; Vesemir kicks him, but it doesn’t do much to stifle them. Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“You see, he and your mother had become acquainted and fallen in love,” Jaskier says. “And, as the Law of Surprise bound them together, he intended to claim her hand in marriage.”

“And grandmother…let him?” Ciri asks, looking deeply confused. Jaskier laughs.

“Not without a fight,” he says. “I’ll – spare you all the gory details. But eventually, yes, your grandmother agreed to let Duny marry Pavetta. That was also the night she married Eist.”

“How does Geralt play into this?” Lambert asks.

Jaskier chews his lip for a moment. “Well,” he says. “Geralt saved Duny’s life, in the fighting. Once everything was settled – when Calanthe had decided to allow their union, and agreed to Eist’s proposal – Duny insisted that he had to repay Geralt. So Geralt claimed the law of surprise.”

Ciri gasps. “ _ Something you have but do not know –  _ my mother was already pregnant!”

Jaskier is stuck between sighing heavily at the memory of the whole mess and cooing proudly at how quick Ciri is. He decides on neither and instead just nods to confirm her statement.

The information settles for a moment, and Jaskier begins picking at his food once more. Ciri continues, though.

“If he knew then…why didn’t he ever come back?”

Jaskier’s heart skips a beat. “I – I don’t know, Ciri,” he says, quietly. “I think he was afraid. But I don’t know for sure.”

Ciri’s frown deepens. “Then I’ll ask him,” she says, and starts to push away from the table. Both Jaskier and Coën grab her, though, stopping her progress. She doesn’t struggle, instead just giving them both withering looks. “ _ What _ ?”

Jaskier looks at Coën for a beat, who just stares back at him, clearly at a loss. “It’s…. Hard to explain, darling, but – ”

“ _ Hard to explain _ usually just means you think I’m too young and stupid to get it,” she mutters.

Jaskier shakes his head. “No, no. Absolutely  _ not _ , Ciri. It really is very hard to explain. Just – trust me, on this. I need to talk to him first. Alright?”

Ciri looks at him defiantly for a moment before she deflates. “Fine,” she says.

Jaskier and Coën both let go of her – a little reluctantly – but she just scoots her chair back to the table and stabs into her food. Jaskier bites back a sigh of relief and returns to his own food, suddenly both exhausted and ravenous.

He’s not thinking about the upcoming conversation with Geralt. If he thinks about it too hard, he’ll just collapse into hysterics, which would do absolutely nothing for anyone’s nerves.

So instead he eats, methodically and slowly, and carefully does not think at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i would like to let you all know that the cliffhanger for the last chapter was ALMOST jaskier running in to see ciri in the middle of the mess and /scene. but instead, i decided to be nice,


	9. chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Geralt,” he says, softly, and ignores the way it feels like a knife sinking into his gut to see Geralt flinch and_ scowl _at the sound of it. “You can’t keep running away from this.”_
> 
> A confrontation, and a flashback.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kate told me to stop doing this but y'know what i'm soft and thus assume everyone else is, too: _i promise you i fix this._
> 
> warning for this chapter, some minor violence and blood - really minor, but it resembles domestic violence. also very mean words.

After breakfast, Coën takes Ciri on a tour of the castle. Jaskier is left to his own devices, and he returns to his room. The excuse he gives is that he would like to rest, but instead of resting, he paces.

He’d been mostly successful at not thinking about talking to Geralt during breakfast, but now he can’t  _ stop _ . There’s so much going on in his head, possibilities and doubts and a million different ways to say the same thing. He’s beyond overwhelmed.

But he has to get past it.

If not for his sake, for Ciri’s.

_ She _ deserves better than this – this  _ tantrum _ Geralt is throwing. At this point, it very well doesn’t matter what happened between him and Jaskier; there are bigger things at play. Ciri deserves the best, and if that means Jaskier puts aside the mountain and deals with it – well, then that’s what it means.

He just has to get that across to Geralt.

Gods _ damnit. _

He continues his pacing for – he doesn’t know how long. And despite all but wearing a rut into the floor, he finds himself no closer to a solution when he shakes himself out of the hurricane of thoughts. There’s nothing to be done about it – this conversation needs to happen. It needs to happen  _ soon _ , and it doesn’t matter if he’s prepared or not, because he’s still going to have to do it either way.

“ _ Fuck _ .”

* * *

He hasn’t had any great revelations by the time he comes to a stop outside of Geralt’s room. It takes several minutes and several more deep breaths before he can make himself try the knob.

It’s, rather surprisingly, unlocked. Jaskier opens it, steps in, and slams it closed again, waiting until the  _ slam _ has stopped echoing in his ears to look up from his feet.

Geralt is standing in the center of the room, shirtless, just  _ staring _ at him, blank-faced. His hair is lanky and greasy, and he’s paler than usual; Jaskier bites back a soft sound when he looks over Geralt’s body and finds him horrifically defined, the curve of his ribs too pointed and each muscle in his abdomen sharply outlined. There are dark bags under his eyes, highlighting the new sharpness of his cheekbones.

Jaskier sucks in a deep breath, enough to hurt, and then lets it out slowly. “Geralt,” he says, softly, and ignores the way it feels like a knife sinking into his gut to see Geralt flinch and  _ scowl _ at the sound of it. “You can’t keep running away from this.”

Geralt’s scowl deepens. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Jaskier blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve been doing nothing  _ but  _ running for the past twenty years,  _ Julian. _ ” Geralt is  _ snarling,  _ scowl replaced by a sneer that shows his teeth. “I’m not about to let a – a coward and a  _ leech _ tell me anything about dealing with my problems.”

Jaskier swallows back the sob trying to creep up his throat and squares his shoulders. “Geralt,” he says, proud when his voice doesn’t waver, “I know you’re – ”

“You don’t know  _ anything _ !” In the blink of an eye, Geralt is in his face, not close enough to touch but enough that Jaskier can see the rage making his eyes cold, can feel the heat of his breath. “I told you on that mountain that I wanted you gone and you couldn’t even give me that!”

Jaskier is – stunned. For the space of a heartbeat, he has nothing to say, couldn’t even give definition to his feelings – and then, before he can make his mouth cooperate with his thoughts, Geralt continues.

“ _ All _ I ever wanted was some damn  _ peace _ . I just wanted to walk the Path – do what I was  _ made  _ to do, to kill monsters and make too little coin for it and die, alone, when I got too slow. And then  _ you _ came along and refused to leave, foisting all of your – your  _ noise _ and your  _ problems  _ and your… _ you _ onto me, as if what I wanted meant  _ nothing _ . You worked your way into  _ everything _ , into the Path, into Kaer Morhen –  _ everything _ that was mine became  _ yours _ . And no matter how much I tried to get rid of you, time and time again, you just kept coming back, always loud and annoying and – and  _ too much _ , and you would never  _ listen  _ to me, not  _ once _ .

“I don’t – I was  _ stupid _ to think that would change. To think you would actually listen to me for once in your godsforsaken life and do as I asked and  _ leave me alone _ .

“I’ve cleaned up your messes for two decades, watched you fuck your way across the Continent, let you fuck your way through everyone I’ve ever loved,  _ let you _ . Because you never gave me a fucking choice, did you,  _ Julian _ ? You ran away from your cushy life as a noble and made up some lie about wanting adventure when what you really wanted was a – a  _ doll _ , someone you could paint over to make whatever you wanted. And I…couldn’t stop you. I fucking  _ let you _ , and I saved your hide again and again and  _ again _ , and each time it just – it just got  _ worse _ .”

Jaskier isn’t sure what the feeling in his chest is, bubbling up like some kind of oily, black potion. It feels like despair, like pain and hopelessness, but it also feels like rage, like indignation and fury. Misery so complete it’s black-blue like the deep ocean, like the time he nearly drowned as a child, and anger so hot it burns cold.

“She’s  _ yours _ , Geralt,” is what finally tumbles out of his mouth, interrupting the way Geralt is panting between them with his teeth bared. “Regardless of – of – ” his voice trembles, and he has to swallow back another sob, “she’s  _ yours _ now, you’re  _ all she has left _ .”

“So she is,” Geralt snaps, and he finally steps back, starting to pace in short bursts across the room, tearing at his own hair. “And whose fault is that,  _ Julian _ ? Who just simply  _ had  _ to go to that betrothal, who needed a bodyguard because he’s absolutely incapable of keeping his cock in his fucking pants for even the space of a goddamn conversation? Who  _ was that _ ?” He stops pacing for a short moment to wrestle into a shirt, speaking even when the fabric muffles him slightly.

“Because it wasn’t  _ me _ . It’s never  _ been _ me. I meant what I said on that mountain,  _ Julian _ . Every single time I find myself in a pile of shit, you’re there. Every  _ godsdamned _ time. And you just couldn’t leave well enough alone, again, as fucking _ always _ , and you showed up here to – to what? To prove something? To fuck me over one last time? Remind me that I’ve spent  _ two fucking decades _ enabling your – your –  _ fuck _ !”

Each time Geralt uses his given name feels like a knife-wound, slowly chipping away at his control. He’s trembling. He can’t help it. His lip is shaking, and so are his fingers and his belly and his legs, and his eyes are  _ burning _ \- but he refuses to cry.

Not here.

Not now.

“You – you  _ can’t _ ,” Jaskier manages, and his voice is wavering now, weak and cracked, “Geralt – I’m –  _ Ciri _ , she needs….  _ I  _ need….”

“Didn’t you listen to a single word I’ve just said, bard?” Geralt growls, and he’s back in Jaskier’s space now, touching him this time, hands on Jaskier’s shoulders. Tight, too tight, tight enough to hurt, more than  _ bruise –  _ “I don’t  _ care  _ what you need!”

Geralt  _ shoves _ him, to the side and back all at once, dragging his clothes along the brick wall. Jaskier hears them tear, feels a sting, the sensation of blood beginning to slowly drip down his back.

“Geralt – ”

But the Witcher is gone, nothing but the slam of the door against the wall and the sound of pounding, running steps left.

Jaskier loses his battle with his quivering, knees buckling. He barely catches himself with his hands, and the next breath he heaves in leaves him on a broken sob.

He cries.

* * *

He doesn’t know how long he cries. He doesn’t know when he stops; he doesn’t know when he got up, or when he left Geralt’s room, or – or anything.

It’s as if he’s returned to that drunken haze after the dragon hunt, but without the drunkenness. Without the  _ forgetting _ .

No, he remembers.

He remembers too much.

_ If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take  _ you _ off my hands – what the  _ fuck _ is the bard doing here – I’m not about to let a – a coward and a  _ leech _ tell me anything – you don’t know  _ anything –  _ I meant what I said on that mountain,  _ Julian _ – I don’t  _ care _ what you need! _

He doesn’t know where he’s going. There’s nothing in his head except Geralt’s voice, Geralt’s words, sharp and venomous and loud, drowning out everything –  _ anything  _ – else. Again and again, he hears Geralt shouting, on the mountain, when he arrived, just barely – or however long ago it was, now…. Shouting.

He’s walking. The stone walls echo with his every step, his shaking, sharp breaths reverberating back to him like some sort of sick parody of how empty his chest is. He’s walking, and  _ remembering _ , and – and –

“ _ Jaskier _ !”

He’s suddenly moving, being  _ yanked _ , quick enough to steal his breath; he stumbles back and crashes into – Lambert, it’s Lambert, a bite mark scar on the hand wrapped around Jaskier’s hip giving him away. He sucks in air as if he’s come from water, harsh and grating and too-fast,  _ aching _ , and his blurry vision clears. In front of him, mere feet from the tips of his toes, is a ledge created by the battle that was waged, a cliff that drops into nothingness where the castle was rent entirely from the mountain it was cut from. The press of Lambert’s shirt against the abrasions on his back make him hiss, and he arches away from the contact; Lambert spins them around and shoves him to the other side of the hall, well away from the ledge.

“ _ Jaskier _ ,” Lambert says, despairing. Jaskier registers the sound of footsteps, of running, more calls of his name. Eskel skids around a corner and rushes to his side, but stops short of touching him; Vesemir is next, and Coën and Ciri follow, all halting in an odd semicircle around where Jaskier is standing, trembling, arms wrapped around himself. “Jaskier, what happened?”

“I – I – ” Jaskier finds himself on his knees again, the pain radiating up his spine nothing compared to the yawning emptiness of his chest, the brand-new canyon between his lungs. He’s sobbing again. There are murmured words, ones he doesn’t catch, and then Coën and Ciri disappear. The semi-circle collapses, Lambert and Eskel descending upon him, careful of the cuts on his back. Both of them have been so, so careful. His sobbing turns into wailing, into  _ howling _ , and there are hands on his shoulders, his waist, in his hair.

“Jaskier, Jaskier, it’s alright, love, we’re here.”

Eskel’s is the first voice to break through his grief. His sobs are slowing, turning to hiccups, to harsh breaths. Slowly, he registers that Eskel isn’t the only one speaking.

“I’m so sorry, buttercup, I’m so sorry, please, please don’t cry.”

“It will be alright. I promise you, Jaskier, just come back to us, pup.”

“It was – a  _ stupid hunt _ ,” is what tumbles out of Jaskier’s mouth, when he finally finds the breath to speak. And then it all just spills out of him, like stagnant water suddenly given drain, ugly and rushing. “A stupid godsdamned  _ dragon _ hunt.”

_ Jaskier knows something is wrong the moment Yennefer walks into The Pensive Dragon. _

_ She takes one look at Geralt and immediately looks away, expression pinched. Jaskier isn’t even sure she noticed him – not that it matters, really. When he looks to Geralt, his Witcher looks…defeated. _

_ Jaskier hasn’t seen Yennefer in some time. Geralt probably has, though, and clearly, something has gone wrong. _

_ “Geralt?” he asks, quietly. _

_ Geralt doesn’t respond, still staring at Yennefer. “I’m in,” he says to Borch, completely contradicting his previous statements. _

_ Jaskier sighs. “We’re in, then.” _

_ The trip up the mountain is fraught, and does nothing to settle Jaskier’s worries regarding Geralt or Yennefer. Geralt refuses to talk to him, and Yennefer still hasn’t acknowledged Geralt’s or Jaskier’s existence at all, despite spending most of a night across a campfire from them. When the Reavers kill Sir Eyck, Jaskier gets the feeling that nothing good awaits them at the top of this mountain. _

_ When Geralt tells him to go ahead and follows Yennefer, Jaskier  _ does not  _ go ahead. He knows better, frankly, and Geralt is just distracted enough he won’t be listening for him. So he follows. _

_ That conversation – what he can hear of it, being careful to stay a certain distance away – is even less encouraging. _

_ “You, a mother? Really?” _

_ “Do you think I'd make a bad one?” Jaskier thinks he hears Yennefer’s voice waver, and oh.  _ Oh _. _

_ “Definitely.” Jaskier flinches, and is horrified when Geralt continues. “Gods, Yen – a child? What could you possibly want with a child? I’ve seen you kill men for less annoying things than crying all the time and shitting on everything, and that’s exactly what a baby does. Cry and shit.” _

_ “They took my choice. I want it back. Not that I’d expect you to understand.” _

_ “I didn’t choose to be a Witcher. And face it, Yen, people like us – they made us to be  _ tools _. We don’t get a choice, and we never will. It’s pointless to search for it.” _

_ He’s never heard Geralt so…unthinkingly cruel, and he wonders what happened between him and Yennefer last that they’re both so…cold. _

_ Later, when they’re following the dwarves on their shortcut, Jaskier tries to talk to Yennefer. Privacy is scarce, but he can’t just let it stand as it is. _

_ “Yennefer,” he says quietly. “Can we talk?” _

_ She gives him a blank look, but walks a little slower; together, they fall a little back from the group. _

_ “I…overheard,” Jaskier admits. “Earlier, with Geralt.” _

_ Yennefer scoffs. “Here to judge my life choices as well, bard?” _

_ Jaskier shakes his head. “No, Yennefer. I’m not. I was just – are you alright?” _

_ She gives him a sharp look. “What do you think?” she asks. “You heard what he said.” _

_ “I did,” Jaskier sighs. “Look, I don’t think he meant any of it; he definitely didn’t mean to be so…cruel.” _

_ “Doesn’t matter what he  _ meant _ ,” Yennefer hisses. “It’s what he  _ said.  _ I don’t want to talk about it anymore, bard.” _

_ Jaskier watches her speed up to catch up to the group, carefully keeping a certain distance from Geralt, and sighs again. There’s a feeling in his gut, something dark. He doesn’t like ignoring his gut feelings, but there’s not much else he can do, for now. He’s now fairly sure nothing short of disaster awaits them all. _

_ And then Borch, Téa, and Véa fall into the abyss of the ravine, and Jaskier is no longer just fairly sure, he’s  _ certain _ that nothing good can come of this hunt. _

_ He tries to convince Geralt to leave. To give up the ridiculous hunt, to come with Jaskier. He says  _ to the coast _ but what he means is  _ anywhere but here. _ Geralt doesn’t agree; he doesn’t disagree, either. _

_ “I need to speak with Yennefer,” is all he says, and then he’s gone. _

_ Jaskier is left sitting, staring at the horizon, until he can no longer justify staying awake. He hopes that the conversation with Yennefer goes well, he does. But there’s that feeling in his gut, alive and squirming, that tells him even if it does, it will be for nothing. _

_ He hates, more than anything, that’s he’s right. _

_ The fight, he misses. The aftermath, he doesn’t. _

_ “Disregard for others’ freedom has become quite your trademark.” Yennefer’s voice is full of venom, venom that Jaskier understands even if he can’t condone it. _

_ Geralt doesn’t make it better. “I made that wish to save you!” _

_ “I didn’t need your help!” _

_ “Like fuck you didn’t! And you – you flit about like a tornado, and for what? So you can have a  _ baby _? A child is no way to boost your fragile ego, Yen.” _

_ “I’ll take advice from you about children as soon as you take responsibility for the one you  _ bound to you _ and then  _ abandoned _!” _

_ Jaskier flinches at  _ both _ of their vitriolic comments and moves to – to get between them? He’s not sure, but certainly  _ something _ has to be done, here. Borch’s voice stops him. _

_ “That’s enough.” _

_ Yennefer walks away. Jaskier opens his mouth, goes to reach for her, and thinks better of it. Geralt has made a right mess of this; Jaskier might be able to fix it, but not now. The wounds are still fresh. _

_ “You wanted to show me what I was missing – ” _

_ “What you’re missing is still out there. Your destiny – I know it.  _ You _ know it.” _

_ Jaskier winces once more at the word  _ destiny.  _ It never ends well to mention that to Geralt – he knows, he’s done it several times too many. He thinks of Ciri in Cintra and his heart aches. _

_ Borch walks away, and Geralt turns to look out over the mountains. Jaskier approaches cautiously; Geralt is clearly upset, shoulders a line of tension and knuckles white from clenching his fists. _

_ “Geralt – ” _

_ “Don’t,” Geralt murmurs, soft and harsh. “Don’t.” _

_ Jaskier sighs. “Look, Geralt, I know – ” _

_ “ _ Damnit _ , Jaskier!” Geralt whirls to face him. “Every single time something goes wrong, you’re here, just – talking! Always talking! Talking, and never saying  _ anything _. Don’t think I don’t know you’ve been hiding – something.” _

_ Jaskier frowns, stomach sinking. “Geralt, I’m not – ” _

_ “You’re not going to say anything of substance – ” _

_ “Geralt, that’s not fair, I don’t – ” _

_ “ – you never do – ” _

_ “I  _ always  _ do, Geralt, what – ” _

_ “ – would you just  _ shut up  _ for fifteen seconds! Just – leave me alone. Just once.” _

_ “No!” Jaskier doesn’t want to shout as well, but he’s – he's  _ scared _ , this is  _ wrong _ , so wrong. “I won’t just – ” _

_ “I just want a moment of peace,” Geralt interrupts, and there’s an edge to his voice that Jaskier has never heard before, in over twenty years of following him across the continent. It sounds wrong,  _ feels _ wrong, and it chills Jaskier’s blood. “For once, Jaskier, could you please give me a moment of peace.” _

_ “Geralt – ” He knows he should shut up. He knows he should walk away, go talk to the dwarves, or maybe Yennefer if she’s still around; he doesn’t do any of those things. _

_ He’s  _ afraid _. He’s never seen Geralt like this. _

_ “Jaskier,” Geralt says, low and dangerous and with that same unfamiliar edge. “I asked – ” _

_ “I know, but – ” _

_ Geralt steps right into his face, their noses mere inches away, and shouts. “If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take  _ you _ off my hands! Go, Jaskier, for fuck’s sake.  _ Leave! _ ” _

By the time the story is finished, by the time he’s explained it and the more recent fight with Geralt, he’s run out of tears. He’s still shaking. Lambert and Eskel haven’t let go of him, but they and Vesemir have gone deathly silent. For a long moment, no one speaks and no one moves. Jaskier just squeezes his eyes shut and trembles.

“Come on, pup,” Vesemir finally murmurs. “Let’s get you to bed. Eskel, Lambert – go.”

“Go where?” Jaskier asks, looking around as Eskel and Lambert pull away.

“Don’t worry about that, pup.” Vesemir stands and holds out a hand. Jaskier takes it and lets the elder Witcher pull him to his feet. “You need rest, and I’ll look at those scratches for you. Come with me.”

Jaskier sucks in a breath. “Alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so now y'all know how the dragon hunt went down in this 'verse! as you can see, some things changed.
> 
> once more, i promise you i fix this, and the next few chapters are more satisfying. i'm still swinging the whump stick, but not as hard and at different people.
> 
> love you all :D


	10. chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jaskier, caught in the middle because his heart is too big._
> 
> _Like_ always.
> 
> _Lambert has to go find Geralt._
> 
> The consequences to Geralt's actions start to catch up to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, i love all of you, today is Bad, 
> 
> small 'warning' for canon-typical self-esteem issues here.

Lambert stands with Eskel and watches Vesemir lead Jaskier away. He’s near shaking; Eskel isn’t much better, glowering at the floor for a long time after Jaskier has disappeared around the corner.

“I can’t – ” Lambert starts, and Eskel  _ growls _ .

“No,” he says, and then he’s gone, too, in the opposite direction.

Lambert is left alone with his directionless rage.

Or, not directionless; it’s more that he doesn’t know exactly where Geralt is, right now.

He sees Jaskier about to walk off that ledge in his head and  _ there’s _ the shaking, now, shuddering through his body to the cadence of Jaskier choking out that story. A dragon hunt, a hunt his stupid brother never should have been on; a sorceress with more power than sense; and Jaskier, caught in the middle because his heart is too big.

Like  _ always _ .

Lambert has to go find Geralt.

* * *

Once he’s got everything he’ll need to hunt Geralt down, he decides he should at least tell someone where he’s going. Vesemir is likely still busy with Jaskier; Coën, with Ciri. Eskel it is.

He finds Eskel filling a back, barely-used courtyard with powerful bursts of Igni, crushing rocks and the remnants of old walls with Aard. It’s the most destruction Lambert has ever seen him cause with the Signs – the most destruction he’s ever seen Eskel cause  _ at all _ .

“Eskel,” he calls, and the bursts of magic stop, but Eskel doesn’t turn to face him. He just stands in the middle of the courtyard and pants, shoulders tense. He considers just announcing his plans and going, but something stops him. He approaches a little cautiously, unsure how reactive Eskel might be right now. “Eskel?”

There’s another violent blast of Igni, enough to start melting some of the smaller sections of rubble. Lambert rethinks his outstretched hand and drops it to his side. Eskel falls to his knees and  _ yells _ , something so full of rage and pain it nearly makes Lambert take a step back.

For a long moment there’s nothing more; no more magic, no more noise. Lambert’s mouth is hanging open, and Eskel is just on his knees, trembling.

And then Eskel speaks.

“Do you know what I thought?” he asks, so quiet even Lambert nearly misses it for the sound of the wind.

“What?”

“Before Geralt arrived,” Eskel says. “I thought…. What if he doesn’t come back? What if a monster is faster?”

Lambert swallows. “I did, too.”

“But that’s not all,” Eskel continues, harsh. “I thought – I thought – what if  _ he _ decided to end his Path himself? And I couldn’t – I  _ couldn’t think it _ , couldn’t  _ let myself _ , because Jaskier needed me – needed  _ us _ – and I couldn’t put that burden on him, and –  _ what if he does it now  _ – ”

It takes a moment of Eskel’s rambling for Lambert to catch his breath, to snatch back his sense from the terrible spiral of thought that idea sent him into. Finally, he manages, sucking in a deep, rough breath.

“Eskel,” he says, sharply.

“And now  _ Ciri, _ ” Eskel continues, as if Lambert hasn’t spoken at all. “A  _ Child Surprise _ , Lambert, he – what am I supposed to  _ do _ with that? How am I supposed to look him in the eye knowing he watched me make the worst mistake of my life and then didn’t  _ learn _ from it? I  _ can’t _ , Lambert, I can’t  _ fucking _ do it – I just – he’s such an  _ idiot _ –”

“ _ Eskel _ ,” Lambert barks. Eskel makes a short, choked sound, but falls silent. Lambert takes another deep breath, ignoring the echoing memory of Deidre attacking Eskel in his mind. “I’m going to find him. And he’s not getting the choice to keep running, not anymore. If Jaskier can’t be cruel about it, that’s fine – gods know I certainly can.”

“Bring him back,” Eskel breathes. “Just…bring him back.”

“I will,” Lambert promises. “I will.”

* * *

Ultimately, tracking Geralt isn’t hard. In fact, it’s  _ laughably _ easy; he hasn’t made any attempts to cover himself at all, footprints clear in the snow, scent marking a clear trail from the keep into the woods just east. If this were a normal day, Lambert would tease his brother for getting careless.

But this isn’t a normal day, and Lambert’s frankly glad Geralt is too distraught to cover his trail. Makes it easier to find him and kick his ass.

Which Lambert is definitely going to do; there will certainly be words, but first, Lambert is taking all of the pain Geralt has caused Jaskier – caused  _ all of them _ , he corrects in his head, thinking of Eskel and Ciri – out on the White Wolf’s pretty face. So Lambert tracks his brother through the woods, much more careful to hide himself, until he finds where Geralt has run off too.

And really, he should have known.

The ruins are barely even  _ that _ , anymore, so old that you’d only know you were looking at ruins if you knew what was originally here. By the time Lambert came along, the place was destroyed, but he’s been told enough times that he knows well. He also knows that it’s one of Geralt’s  _ places _ , like they all have – ruins or forests or towns that feel  _ safe _ . It gives him a single moment of pause, but he decides that Geralt has made his bed; he can damn well lie in it.

He can’t beat Geralt in a fair fight, so he doesn’t try for fair. Instead, he doubles back and comes around so he’s nearly right behind Geralt – apparently too damn distracted to hear him, the  _ idiot _ – and climbs a tree. Geralt looks around at the sound of the branches creaking, but seems to decide it’s just the wind, and goes back to contemplating the small, lopsided stone that Lambert knows used to be the center of a fountain.

Lambert waits for the space of a few heartbeats, then leaps from the tree and lands right on Geralt’s back.

There’s a scramble as Geralt tries to turn and fight him; Lambert lets him turn but catches his wrists, wrenches them up. Geralt bucks him off, but can’t escape his grasp, and tries to kick him instead. He dodges the kick without letting go of Geralt’s wrists and manages to swing himself around until he’s kneeling on Geralt’s thigh. From there, he’s able to trap Geralt’s legs and settle his weight, so Geralt’s hips are trapped as well.

“Fucking stop,” Lambert says, switching his grip on Geralt’s wrists so one hand is free. Before Geralt can even recognize he’s done it and take advantage, Lambert punches him. Right in the mouth, and he feels Geralt’s lip split between his knuckles and his teeth. The blood is secondary, and he does it again. Again. Again.

He hits Geralt until Geralt stops struggling. He’s not knocked out – Lambert knows how to deliver a beating that keeps the victim conscious, thank you very much – but the fight has gone out of him. He’s still clearly  _ pissed _ , but he’s stopped trying to break Lambert’s hold.

“What the fuck, Lambert.” Geralt is trying to affect a growl and only partly succeeding. “You can’t just – ”

Lambert scoffs. “Don’t,” he says. “I can do what I want. You’re an ass, and I don’t want your opinion.”

A little bit of the struggle comes back. Lambert growls – properly – and digs his fingernails into Geralt’s wrists, smelling blood. “ _ Quit _ .”

“Lambert, don’t make me – ”

“Make you  _ what _ ?” Lambert lifts Geralt’s wrists a little and slams them back on the ground, taking vicious pleasure in the way he feels the bones grind together under his palms. “Make you talk? Make you confront your mistakes? Make you  _ think _ about what you  _ did _ ?”

Geralt bares his teeth, an attempt to be threatening, and Lambert laughs at him, then shoves away, shifting to his feet in one violent movement.

“Not like I fucking can,” he hisses, starting to pace in the little clearing. “Only  _ he  _ could, and we both know it. But you’ve gone and done your level best to ruin that, haven’t you?”

Geralt struggles to prop himself up on his elbows. His face is starting to swell, streaks of blood from his lip and his nose covering the lower half of his face. “It’s not like I ruined what  _ you _ had,” he spits.

Lambert laughs again. He knows he sounds psychotic, that he probably looks like he’s finally come unhinged, but there’s fuck all he can do about that. Because they’re  _ having this conversation _ , apparently, whether he or Geralt are prepared for it.

He paces back over to Geralt, practically stalking, until he’s standing over him again. Geralt doesn’t flinch, but it’s a near thing; Lambert can see the twitch in his jaw, the minute widening of his eyes.

“You really think it’s  _ me _ I’m angry about?” he asks, and his voice is empty, cold. Cruel.

“Lambert – ”

He doesn’t bother to hold back when he stomps on Geralt’s fingers. He’s relatively sure something breaks, judging by the furrow between Geralt’s brow, but neither of them move.

“I have never given a single fuck about  _ me _ ,” he continues, dropping into a hiss as he slowly leans closer to Geralt. “ _ Never _ . Not once. I run with Cats because they’ll kill me if I put a single toe out of line; I take contracts that should kill me and fucking  _ hope  _ they do. Geralt, I have never,  _ ever _ made a decision for my own sake. I make choices based on what they’ll get me, what good or bad they’ll do to others. I don’t care if I die, if I get hurt. It didn’t matter when I was born, didn’t matter when my dad used to beat me and my mother shitless, didn’t matter when Vesemir used the Law of Surprise and brought me to Kaer Morhen, didn’t matter during the Trials, definitely doesn’t  _ fucking _ matter on the Path. So don’t you  _ dare _ assume that any of this is because of what your stupid decision did to  _ me _ .”

“Lambert – ” Geralt tries again. Lambert just hits him again, a slap that sends his head snapping to the side, then continues his tirade.

“I don’t get things,” he says, still hissing, ignoring the fact that Geralt looks genuinely afraid. “Everything I’ve ever had has been taken from me. I  _ expect it _ . I figured that I would lose him eventually. But you?” Lambert laughs, strangled and cold. “ _ You. _ Do you even  _ know _ ? He  _ loves _ you – ”

“He loves us all,” Geralt whispers.

Lambert blinks. He steps back, takes a deep, steadying breath. “Of course he does,” he says, because it is objectively true, even though it still feels like a dream even after so many years. “But you’re fucking different, Geralt, don’t you  _ see  _ that? Don’t you  _ know _ ?”

“Know  _ what _ ?”

Lambert scoffs and spins on his heel to pace away, then back again. “Of course he loves all of us, Geralt, but you – he loved you  _ first _ . You were the first Witcher he ever met, the one he decided to follow across the Continent. You’re the one who made him famous. You’ve saved his life more times than can be counted. Don’t you think that means something to him?”

Geralt makes a soft, choked noise.

Lambert sneers, strides back to Geralt, and bends to look him right in the eye. “It should mean something to  _ you. _ ”

With that, he delivers a perfectly-aimed hit, and Geralt falls unconscious. “And I’m not even going to  _ touch _ the Child Surprise thing. That can be Eskel’s wheelhouse. You already know damn well how  _ I  _ feel about it.”

* * *

He carries Geralt back with all the dignity of a sack of potatoes, and drops him rather unceremoniously onto the ground in the main courtyard. Igni melts some of the surrounding snow so he can splash it over Geralt’s face.

Geralt wakes with a grunt and a swing. Lambert dodges the hit and grabs his wrist.

“Don’t start,” he growls.

“What the  _ fuck _ , Lambert.” Geralt shakes his head like a wet dog and glares up at him.

Lambert grips his wrist tighter and bends to look him in the eye again. “Jaskier hasn’t known you as long as I have,” he says, falsely casual, “twenty years isn’t shit on fifty. He might not know what you’re doing, but  _ I do _ . And for fuck’s sake, Geralt, I’m not going to let you.”

With that, he yanks Geralt to his feet, one hand on his chest to steady him. Geralt looks…still pissed, but there’s guilt in his eyes, too.

_ Good _ , he thinks viciously.

“Come on,” he says, once Geralt is steady on his own two feet. He looks like shit, face swollen and bloodied, streaked with dirty water and mud. “Eskel will want to talk to you.”

He grabs Geralt’s elbow and yanks, not giving him the option to run away again. Geralt could, of course, get away from him; he’s faster and stronger. But he doesn’t. Instead, he just follows, muttering vitriol to himself that Lambert gleefully tunes out.

They find Eskel in the armory, sharpening a sword with great prejudice. Geralt tries to halt at the door, but Lambert gets a hand on his back and shoves him in, heedless of the way he stumbles.

“Your turn,” Lambert announces, standing in the doorway and crossing his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all had some _opinions_ after last chapter, and i loved all of it 💜


	11. chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Is your memory so terrible, Geralt,” he starts, and his voice is deceptively soft for the rage that’s building in his chest, “that you’ve already forgotten Deidre?”_
> 
> Eskel gets his turn with Geralt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise! kate decided to be magnanimous and allow me to post a bonus chapter, so y'all get an update :D
> 
> warning for eskel's tragic past and all it entails, here, including a brief mention of rape (not of eskel), and murder.

Eskel doesn’t look up from the sword he’s sharpening immediately. He waits until Lambert’s echoing words have settled, until the clang from whatever Geralt stumbled into is gone. Then he slowly sets the sword and his tools to the side, wipes his hands. Makes sure there’s nothing left on his fingers.

He can practically feel Geralt starting to fidget.

There’s a vindictive part of him that’s pleased about that.

Finally, when Geralt manages to choke out a soft, “Eskel, I – ” he looks up. Geralt stops talking immediately as their gazes connect. He can tell Lambert took his anger out on Geralt’s face specifically; the vindictive part of him is pleased about that, too, even though he hates that it is.

“Is your memory so terrible, Geralt,” he starts, and his voice is deceptively soft for the rage that’s building in his chest, “that you’ve already forgotten Deidre?”

Geralt and Lambert both flinch.

“Because I could  _ swear _ you would remember the time you had to sew my face back together after she attacked me.”

“Eskel,” Geralt says, still barely breathing. “I didn’t – ”

“You didn’t?” Eskel asks, standing with a clatter. “You didn’t  _ what, _ Geralt? Didn’t remember? Didn’t  _ think _ ? I already know that. I  _ know _ you weren’t fucking thinking, because if you  _ were _ , you never would have abandoned Ciri.”

“I didn’t  _ abandon _ her,” Geralt says, but he sounds unsure. Eskel laughs, empty and echoing.

“Yeah, you left her with her family. All safe and comfy, right? That’s what I thought, too,” Eskel’s voice catches, thinking of Deidre, thinking of all of the things that happened to her, the things _he_ should have been there to prevent. It smarts like an open wound, even decades later. “And we all know how that ended. Except, you really _don’t_ , because there’s something I never told you.”

“Eskel, what – ”

“I had to  _ kill _ Deidre, Geralt.” He shudders as he says it, remembers so clearly the look in her eyes as he held her during her last breaths, his clothes soaked in her blood. Remembers the half-formed apology that spilled from her lips alongside more blood, remembers holding her and sobbing for  _ hours _ , refusing to take the bounty she had on her head because even monsters have lines they won’t cross.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Lambert hisses, and Eskel laughs again, just as empty as before.

“Yeah,” he snarls. “ _ I  _ killed Deidre. Because she was  _ dangerous _ , and I – I failed. I didn’t do what I should have. So, Geralt,” he takes four long strides across the room, until he’s right in Geralt’s face, their chests brushing with each inhale, “believe me when I say  _ I know _ how wrong toying with destiny can go. Ciri, she’s twelve. The same age Deidre was when a mage raped her, when she ran away from home the first time. I could have prevented that, but I  _ didn’t _ , and I didn’t ever go back for her, so when she came to me, it was  _ too late _ . And then we sent her away, and I had to hunt her down and end her life because she was too far gone. So when I look at Ciri, a scared little girl bound up in destiny because of what  _ you _ did, and see you running away? See you trying your hardest to make the same mistake I did? I see Deidre, and I see me, and I  _ cannot _ let you do it. I  _ won’t. _ ”

“Eskel – ”

“Unless the next words out of your mouth are exactly what you plan to do to make this up to all of us,  _ especially  _ Ciri and Jaskier, I don’t want to hear it,” Eskel snaps. “I’m not godsdamned done with you.”

Geralt’s jaw snaps shut with an audible  _ click _ . Eskel heaves in a breath, clenches his fists to control his shaking. Lambert’s already delivered a physical beating; as much as he may be tempted, he doesn’t need to do it too.

Besides, he knows that Geralt can take physical pain. Better than any of them, in fact, he can hold out and withstand torture and injuries that would kill other Witchers – it’s his emotions he can’t deal with. He’ll accept a beating because he’s self-flagellating, but Eskel’s  _ words _ will cut to the quick and actually make him think. Knowing someone for nearly a century has its perks, even though Eskel isn’t sure he wants to call  _ this _ a perk.

“I’m not just angry about Ciri,” Eskel continues after a moment. He sees Jaskier’s face in his mind, the tears streaking his cheeks. The scrapes along his back. He has to clench his fists even tighter as he meets Geralt’s eyes. “What the fuck were you  _ thinking _ , Geralt, going on that godsforsaken dragon hunt?”

Geralt opens his mouth, then closes it again for a moment, frowning. “Eskel, I…. It was….”

“It was? It was  _ what _ ? Jaskier told us what happened – what you said to Yennefer, what you said to  _ him _ . And not just on the mountain, but today, before you tried to run away like a fucking coward.” Eskel has to stop and take a deep breath. “I know what you’re doing.  _ We  _ know – ” he gestures to Lambert, “ – and for once in our lives, Geralt, I’m not letting you off the hook. I  _ refuse _ to let you push him away – to let you push  _ us _ away, again, like you’ve tried to do dozens upon dozens of times, because you’re too scared to just ask for help. So, you won’t ask for help? You get what you fucking  _ get _ . And if that means I have to strap you down and force you to fucking talk about it? So be it, gods above, I will fucking do it. Do you understand me?”

Eskel is panting by the time he finishes, glaring right into Geralt’s shocked expression.

“I…I don’t know….”

“It doesn’t matter what you do or don’t know. I’ll drag you kicking and screaming. Do you understand that you’re not getting out of this, now?”

Geralt’s jaw tenses. “Yes.”

“Good.” Eskel takes a step back and squeezes his eyes shut. “Now, get out. Before I do something stupid.”

“I see my timing is impeccable, then.”

Eskel opens his eyes and looks over Geralt’s shoulder to see Vesemir standing in the doorway with Lambert.

“Geralt, come with me. And no, this isn’t optional.”

Geralt makes a strained noise, but turns on his heel and stalks over. Lambert steps out of the way quickly, frowning, and lets Geralt pass. Vesemir looks at him, then Eskel, and murmurs, “I couldn’t keep him upstairs,” and then leaves.

“What?” Lambert asks, but before Eskel can add anything, Jaskier is barreling into the room, eyes wide and full of tears.

“ _ Eskel _ ,” he says, mostly breath, and crashes into him.

He catches him with a small grunt, arms wrapped tightly around the bard’s waist. Jaskier throws his own arms around Eskel’s neck and presses frantic kisses to Eskel’s face; his  _ scars _ , specifically. Eskel’s stomach drops.

“You heard,” he murmurs, fighting the urge to let go of Jaskier, to push him back. “You…how much?”

“Everything,” Jaskier whispers, still kissing along his scars. Eskel starts to tremble all over again, for very, very different reasons this time. His eyes burn with the threat of tears that won’t fall. “Eskel, I never knew, I’m so  _ sorry _ .”

“It was a long time ago,” Eskel manages to choke out. “It was – ”

“Shh.” Jaskier presses a soft, chaste kiss to his mouth, one that tastes like tears. “You don’t have to talk about it anymore, not if you don’t want to. I just – I want this. Just this.”

Eskel tightens his grip around Jaskier’s waist and stumbles back, until he hits the bench he was sitting on. He collapses onto it, and Jaskier just crawls up with him, straddling his lap and  _ still _ kissing over Eskel’s face, along each scar, over the bridge of his nose, across his forehead and cheek.

“Jaskier,” he whispers, voice soft and weak. He’s still shaking, heart thudding erratically in his chest as everything really hits him. “Jaskier, I – ”

“I love you, Eskel,” Jaskier interrupts. “I love you, so much, and you’re not a monster. You did what you thought was best.”

It feels like some sort of weight lifts off of Eskel’s shoulders, at that. As if he’s been carrying something that Jaskier alone had the ability to take for him.

“ _ Jaskier _ ,” he murmurs, and turns his head to kiss the bard, snaking one hand up his back and neck into his hair to hold him in place. Jaskier sinks into it easily, making a soft, welcoming sound, and Eskel still feels like he’s on the edge of crying, is still trembling, but he thinks it’ll be okay. He has Jaskier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know this one is even shorter than the last (kate's gonna scream at me, i can feel it) but the next one is a proper length, i promise. 
> 
> bonus points to the handful of you that figured out where this pattern was going, too!


	12. chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I’m sure Lambert and Eskel have both expressed their own frustrations. So now, I want you to listen to mine.”_
> 
> Slowly, Geralt begins to get his shit together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're (mostly) almost at the end of the whump! (kinda, sorta....you'll see.)

Geralt follows Vesemir all the way to the dining hall, where he’s forced to sit and hold still while Vesemir tends to his face and his fractured finger. He grits his teeth and bears it, squeezing his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to look at that disappointed look on Vesemir’s face.

“Alright,” Vesemir finally says, once he’s finished with the first aid. “Outside. Run the walls.”

Geralt opens his eyes and scowls. “Vesemir, what – ”

“No arguing. Go. I’ll be there in a moment to have my own discussion with you.”

“Not much of a discussion if I’m running,” Geralt snaps.

Vesemir simply raises a single brow, an expression on his face that Geralt is painfully familiar with. Even at nearly a century old, it strikes fear into his stomach.  _ Fuck _ .

“I’ll be talking, you’ll be listening,” Vesemir says, calm and cool. “Go.”

Geralt grumbles, but does as he’s told.

* * *

He’s made six laps around the walls by the time Vesemir appears in the courtyard. The elder Witcher stands in the center and crosses his arms, just watching Geralt for another lap and a half, and then he starts to talk.

“I’m sure Lambert and Eskel have both expressed their own frustrations,” he says, and not for the first time, Geralt hates his enhanced hearing. Even so much higher than Vesemir, with the wind, he can hear each word loud and clear. And worse, he can hear the disappointment in Vesemir’s words, the weight of them. “So now, I want you to listen to mine.”

Geralt grits his teeth and keeps running. Lambert, he could handle – he’s loud and brash and angry, and Geralt expected him to turn to violence. Eskel was a little harder, the sheer pain in his eyes making something ugly twist in Geralt’s stomach.

Vesemir, though, is the closest thing to a father Geralt has ever had.

“First off, I would have thought between everything I’ve ever taught you, and what happened with Eskel, you would not have claimed the Law of Surprise. Not when a child could be at stake.”

Geralt keeps his mouth shut, but thinks back to the betrothal. He’d had no  _ option _ ; it was a life debt. Duny had given him no choice, not with Calanthe breathing down their necks. He’d known the risk and had hoped that maybe, just  _ once _ , his luck would turn and he’d receive – a horse, or a bag of gold. Something else. Anything but a  _ child _ .

And then Pavetta had vomited on the floor.

“But since you did it anyway, I want to address something very, very important: you never toy with destiny, Geralt. We – the other Witchers and I, before the fall of this school – raised you better than that. I don’t care what you think of destiny, boy. It is real, and it is lording over you right now. You have no one to blame but yourself.”

There’s a pointed pause, and Geralt stops running. He bends, hands on his knees, and pants, hoping to hide his face from Vesemir; even if he’s successful, it almost doesn’t matter. Not when all he can see when he closes his eyes is Jaskier’s face. His chest aches and his stomach turns.  _ Blame _ .

“Keep running,” Vesemir orders, and Geralt heaves in a deep breath before doing just that. “You made your choice, and then you ran from it. You’ve been running from this – and a number of other things – for years, Geralt. It’s time you stopped.”

Geralt considers answering that, then changes his mind.

“Now, aside from your foolish choices about Ciri, I want to address what you’ve done to Jaskier.” Vesemir takes a deep breath, and when Geralt looks down on his next lap around, he sees that the elder Witcher seems to be steadying himself.

“You broke that boy, Geralt. He’s not been himself for a moment since I met him in Ard Carraigh. I’m not going to pretend to know why you did what you did, nor to understand it, but I want you to know that you have to fix it. If you don’t, you won’t be welcome back here next winter. Or the one after that. Not until you apologize, and he’s forgiven you. Do you understand what I’m telling you, Geralt?”

He stops running again, feeling like he’s been punched in the throat. He sees Kaer Morhen in all its crumbling glory spread out before him and realizes, for the first time, that he’s really fucked up.

Over the years he’s learned to pick up when Vesemir is joking, when he’s teasing.

This isn’t a joke.

Vesemir has looked at what Geralt has done, and judged him in the wrong. Vesemir has looked at Jaskier, seen the heartbreak and misery Geralt has caused, and decided that between the two of them, Jaskier deserves this home more than Geralt.

“I understand,” he replies, and he can’t be sure if Vesemir hears him, but when he turns around, the elder Witcher is gone.

He falls to his knees, puts his head into his hands, and breathes.

* * *

It’s late when he sulks back into the castle. There’s no one downstairs; if he strains his ears, he can hear movement in the direction of the bedrooms, some murmuring. He doesn’t bother to try and pick anything up.

Highly unlikely anyone here wants him to be privy to their conversations, anyway. Not anymore.

He trudges up the stairs toward his bedroom and is startled when he looks up from his feet to see Coën leaned against the wall next to his door. The other Witcher is staring at him, arms crossed over his chest, expression blank except for the slight downward tilt to the corner of his mouth.

“Coën,” Geralt greets, a little cautious. Coën is the best of them by far, in a moral sense; the Griffins prided themselves on their ethics and honor. He’s a very good representation of the fallen school.

Of course, considering the literal and verbal beating Geralt has taken today, he’s not going to be taking any risks.

So he stops a good few paces away, pausing in a way he hopes Coën understands is him waiting for a response.

For a long moment, Coën just looks at him. Studies him, really, though the almost-blank expression remains firmly in place; Geralt’s skin crawls but he remains where he is, looking back at him.

Coën sighs, uncrosses his arms, and stands straight from the wall. Geralt opens his mouth to – ask, or comment, something, but the other Witcher shakes his head. The blank expression falls to acute disappointment, and Coën shakes his head again, then disappears down the hallway to his own bedroom.

Geralt finds himself feeling like that is the biggest blow he’s received all day.

“Fuck.”

He walks into his bedroom and starts to clean. There’s no hope in any sleep, not tonight, not for a while.

So he cleans, and he thinks, and he plans.

* * *

The next morning dawns clear and cold and…loud.

Geralt has the sudden realization that with the addition of Coën and Ciri, this is the fullest that Kaer Morhen has been in decades. He wishes he knew why that makes his chest ache. He wishes he knew how to name any of his emotions at all.

It takes him entirely too long to dig up his courage and go downstairs. The others are halfway through breakfast when he arrives, trying to be quiet, to sneak in and eat and leave without bothering them. Of course, five out of seven people in the room right now are Witchers, and it’s a futile endeavor.

Doesn’t really make the feeling of his stomach sinking to the floor feel any better when everyone abruptly goes silent.

Vesemir is the first to speak. “Sit down and eat, boy.” He pounds a fist against the table to his side, a clear direction for Geralt to sit there. Geralt stares hard at his feet and shuffles over.

Slowly, the conversation around him picks up again. He doesn’t join, and no one tries to pull him in; instead, he eats his breakfast, and watches them. Eskel and Lambert are seated on either side of Jaskier, and Coën and Ciri across from them, all at the other end of the table from Vesemir, at the head, and Geralt, to his right.

It isn’t until Ciri mentions a bruxa, stumbling a little on the pronunciation between saying  _ bruxa _ and  _ bruxae _ that Geralt actually tunes in to what’s being said.

Ciri is talking animatedly, a big grin on her face, hands waving; Coën is chuckling at her, while Lambert and Eskel laugh and give Jaskier wide-eyed looks in turns.

“ – and I wasn’t there for it, I was in a closet, because Jaskier told me to run, but Coën told me later – ”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and interrupts with, “You mean you wormed it out of Coën with those big eyes you used to use to get me to pilfer sweets for you.”

Ciri gives him a blinding grin that definitely means  _ yes _ , and also means  _ I don’t feel bad about that _ . It’s an expression that Geralt has seen a million times; when he and Eskel were boys here, on children’s faces across the Continent. His chest still aches, and for a moment he’s frozen with it, seeing such innocent mischief on the face of this child – this girl, this princess, who is now his. His responsibility; his charge. His – his  _ daughter _ .

And then the reality of what Ciri has been saying slams into him with all of the kindness of a wyvern, and his fork clatters gracelessly to the floor.  _ Jaskier told me to run _ . Once more, everyone falls silent, eyes on Geralt. He looks to his own hand first, feeling irrationally betrayed, and finds that he’s shaking.

When he looks back up, Ciri is wide-eyed and gaping, and flinches back upon seeing his face. He doesn’t know what he looks like right now, doesn’t know how to fix it, so he looks to Jaskier, who is equally wide-eyed, but looks more…resigned.

“Geralt – ” Eskel starts, tone placating, but Jaskier puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t,” he says softly. Lambert frowns and turns to look at Jaskier, who just looks back at him with a shake of his head. “It’s alright,” he assures, and stands gracefully from the table.

He walks calmly around the table, until he’s standing to Geralt’s side. “I think we need to have a talk, Geralt.”

His voice is wrong, distant and cold and nothing like it just was, speaking to Ciri, to Eskel and Lambert. Geralt is still shaking, minute trembles running through his arms, his hands. He can’t make himself actually look up at Jaskier, can’t bear to see the coldness reflecting in those blue eyes that have haunted his every dream since that godsforsaken mountain.

“Alright,” he agrees, quietly, and follows where Jaskier leads.

He’s almost shocked that Jaskier goes directly to his bedroom. Geralt had expected to be led to a neutral space, or his own room.

Then again, he supposes if this talk goes south, Jaskier can sleep with Lambert or Eskel. He feels wrong assuming that Jaskier might be trying to be kind to him, because he knows he doesn’t deserve it. The longer he thinks about it, the more he realizes that he doesn’t deserve anything; not the kindness Lambert showed by only fracturing one of his fingers, not the invitation to stay if he promised to fix this.

He’s not sure he can fix this. It’s…terrifying.

Jaskier sits at the head of the bed, back straight against the headboard, and crosses his legs. His expression is blank, eyes distant, and Geralt is starting to become used to that aching in his chest.

“Sit,” Jaskier says, gesturing to the end of the bed, and so Geralt does. He mirrors Jaskier, sitting up straight with his legs crossed. There’s a moment of silence where they just look at one another, until suddenly Geralt is seized by the realization that this is it. This is his chance to – to apologize, to fix what he’s done, to…explain himself, though he knows nothing he could ever say would explain it, not really. Not in a way that makes it better.

“Jaskier,” he murmurs, and just saying his name aches, makes him think of all the other times he’s said the bard’s name, numerous as they are. In joy, in fear, in  _ pleasure _ . In anger, too. “I don’t…. I’m not good with words.”

Jaskier snorts, but it’s not humorous. It’s empty and derisive and Geralt carefully controls his flinch.

“I know,” he says. “Unfortunately, this requires them.”

Geralt can’t control this flinch. “I  _ know _ ,” he says, and he hopes that he sounds properly plaintive. “I know that. I – I want to try, but….”

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, and his voice is…gentle. When Geralt meets his eyes, they’re soft and sad and a myriad of other things Geralt can’t name because he’s always been too afraid to do it. To admit the depth of what Jaskier has always given him. “I’m not expecting you to suddenly become a different person. But this – this  _ has _ to happen.”

“I know,” Geralt repeats, and this time he sounds  _ defeated _ . Weak.

Jaskier sighs. “Would you rather talk about Ciri, first?”

Geralt almost agrees. Almost. But then he thinks of all the things he’s said to Jaskier; on the mountain, in his bedroom. He thinks of the stench of misery and tears that permeate this room like thick dust, the way Jaskier’s face had crumpled just before Geralt stormed out. He thinks of Lambert’s expression, talking about Jaskier’s love for him; Eskel’s haunted eyes, somehow filled with more ghosts talking about Jaskier’s pain than Deidre’s death. He looks down at his hands.

“No,” he breathes. “No, I – ”

“I won’t judge you if you do – ”

“ _ No _ ,” Geralt repeats, suddenly frustrated. Not with Jaskier, not really; with  _ himself _ , with all of his shortcomings, his jumbled thoughts and emotions. “No, I – Jaskier, please. If I don’t – fuck, if I can’t do this now, I won’t be able to do it. Just…I know I don’t  _ deserve _ it, but I beg your patience.”

Jaskier sucks in a breath, and Geralt looks up to find him wide-eyed. “You have it,” he murmurs, and Geralt feels the weight of those words, understanding that he’s been given another chance. Another chance on top of the dozens of chances Jaskier has given him in over twenty years.

He knows, deep in his bones, that if he doesn’t do this right, it will be his  _ last _ chance.

“I’m not…,” Geralt takes a deep breath, “I’m not really sure where to start.” He thinks he should start with  _ I’m sorry _ , but it feels wrong somehow – like it needs to be bigger than that. Like maybe he needs to explain, first, and  _ then _ apologize. “There’s…so much to say. To explain. I’m… _ gods,  _ Jaskier, I’m – ” he swallows hard, heart racing, “ – I’m terrified. That I can’t…that I won’t cover all of it. That I can’t fix this.”

Jaskier makes a soft, choked-off sound. Geralt looks at him questioningly, and he sighs. “I – if I can ask a question?” he says. “You don’t – if you don’t want to answer it, that’s…that’s okay, for now, but – ”

Geralt has the urge to curl his fists, as if he’s trying to cling to something. “Ask,” he says, softly and simply, because he’s not sure he can say any more without choking. He’s sure Jaskier doesn’t know, didn’t do it on purpose, but it feels very much like he’s been thrown a lifeline.

“Before the dragon hunt,” Jaskier starts, and they both wince a little. “At the Pensive Dragon. When Yennefer and Sir Eyck came in – there was something wrong. I could tell immediately. What happened between the two of you? Before?”

Geralt drags a hand down his face, feeling the oil and dirt sitting on his skin, the scratch of his stubble intersected by a too-smooth scar along his jaw. He sees Yennefer in his mind, full of righteous fury, eyes practically burning. Guilt twists his stomach, the echo of her door slamming still stuck in his mind even so many months later.

“It was my fault,” he starts, looking back down to his lap. “I went to visit her and found her speaking with Istredd. He’s another mage, one she knows from her time at Aretuza, a good friend. Likely a lover, too, though she’s never confirmed that.”

“Are you – jealous?” Jaskier asks, sounding shocked. Geralt laughs hollowly, because Yennefer had said the exact same thing at the time.

“No,” he answers, and it’s the truth. “I just – I’m not particularly fond of Istredd. He’s….”

“A prick?”

Geralt laughs again, a little more genuinely this time. “Yes.”

“What happened?”

“It was – ” Geralt sighs, guilt nearly choking him now. “She wanted to know more about the wish.” He knows Jaskier will know what he means; they’ve not actually  _ discussed _ it, not really, but there’s not exactly any other event that he could be referring to with  _ wish _ . “And I – I didn’t.  _ Don’t _ . Want to know more.”

He remembers Yennefer’s quirked brow when he said he wasn’t interested in learning more about the wish. He remembers Istredd’s smug grin, the way it had made his blood boil for some reason he couldn’t define,  _ still  _ can’t define.

“We fought,” he continues. “I asked her not to look into it, to leave it alone. She told me I had no right to stop her; she’s right, of course, I don’t…there’s no reason I should have a say, but it was just….” He pauses, takes a deep breath, and forces himself to spit out the truth. “I thought, if she digs deeper into the wish, if she finds its inner workings, that she may try to  _ break  _ it. Break the connection. And I didn’t…I  _ couldn’t _ handle that.”

Jaskier murmurs, “Couldn’t  _ tell  _ her that, I assume,” clearly not meant for Geralt’s ears. So he ignores it, even though it stings like a knife wound. It’s the truth, anyway. He’s nearly shaking just having said it to Jaskier; telling Yennefer, admitting his fear, would leave him ruined, he’s sure.

_ It was my wish! _

_ Yes, well, it’s  _ my life _ , Geralt! _

“Istredd sat and listened to the fight,” Geralt explains. “And when we were done talking –  _ yelling _ , he suggested that perhaps his mentor would know something more. That they should invite him to look at the bond.”

His hands begin to shake even thinking about it, seeing Istredd’s self-righteous grin, his sprawl in the chair as he suggested his mentor, that  _ fucking _ name. “Stregobor,” he whispers. “He looked at me and suggested meeting Stregobor, and Yen – Yen  _ agreed _ , and I – I stormed out. It was the first time we had seen each other since, in that tavern.”

“Ah,” Jaskier says, and Geralt can’t name the emotion in his voice, can’t make himself look up and meet his eyes, either.

Geralt takes a deep breath, tries to calm the shaking in his hands. “I thought maybe I could make it up to her. On the dragon hunt.”

Jaskier makes a choked sound, and Geralt knows even without looking that it was a bitten back laugh, though not a humorous one.

“Yeah,” he says, guilt still trying to choke him. “I know.”

“Geralt – ” Jaskier starts, but Geralt waves a hand.

“It’s – I never…,” he tries, words catching in his throat, tangling around in his mind. “Whenever I’m around her, it’s like…I can’t stop myself from just  _ talking _ . Saying whatever comes to mind first. And I always regret it, never mean it, not the way it comes out, but….”

“ _ Doesn’t matter what he meant, it’s what he said _ ,” Jaskier murmurs, and Geralt finally looks back to him. He looks…sad. “I spoke to her. Briefly. That’s what she said about it.”

“Fuck.” Geralt rubs a hand over his face again. “ _ Fuck _ .”

“I can – after the winter, I can try and speak to her again.” Jaskier looks so earnest, eyes wide and so blue, and Geralt’s chest aches fiercely. Jaskier is so, so unfailingly  _ good,  _ and Geralt has never deserved a single moment of his time.

“No,” he says. It comes out harsher than he means it to, and he huffs. “Or – no, you  _ can _ , but – not  _ for _ me. I…I need to do that.  _ I  _ have to make up for what I did, what I said. Not you.”

Jaskier chews on his lip for a moment, but nods. “Okay.”

Geralt takes a deep breath. He’s not exactly back to square one, but he’s still unsure where to start. With the latest fight? With the mountain? With everything  _ before _ that he’s said and never meant?

A memory comes back to him, an early memory, a bare handful of years after Jaskier had started travelling with Geralt.  _ How’s my singing, Geralt?  _ He winces a little, remembering his response:  _ like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling. _ It hadn’t been the truth, at least not  _ really.  _ At the time, he’d still found Jaskier’s singing and chatter a little annoying, grating sometimes, but he’d never actually thought the bard’s singing was bad. Quite the opposite, actually. Geralt didn’t know much about music at the time, but he’d always been able to hear something  _ wrong _ with a lot of bards’ voices, something just  _ slightly _ out of tune – yet another curse of enhanced ears. Jaskier had never sounded wrong unless he was trying to.

“I never hated your singing,” he murmurs, almost without thinking about it. “Even at the beginning. I found it annoying, but I never hated it. You’re a wonderful singer, and always have been.”

Jaskier’s eyes are wide again, mouth dropped open a little. “I – oh. Uh…thank you.”

Geralt nods. “I just – I remembered… _ fillingless pie _ , and I know it was years ago – ”

“Over a decade,” Jaskier adds with a small smile, and Geralt nods again.

“ – but it was…. I’m always saying things I don’t mean. Always. It’s like….” Geralt stops, frowning. He looks back to his hands, still trembling slightly. He’s not quite sure what he’s trying to impart; usually, he would ask Jaskier to help, but he  _ can’t _ , not right now. He’s apologizing, kind of. Jaskier shouldn’t have to hold his hand and help him with his emotions right now.

Especially not after what Geralt has done.

“I just say what comes to mind first,” he finally settles on. It’s not  _ exactly  _ right, but maybe if he keeps talking, keeps trying, it will come out correctly. “And when I’m frustrated, when I’m – upset, or  _ afraid _ , it’s…it’s always  _ worse _ .” He takes another deep breath and looks back to Jaskier. He’s not quite prepared to address the things he’s said to Jaskier, not yet, still wrong-footed and anxious, but he can try to explain  _ this _ , try to make sense of his stupid behavior. “When I found out Yen was trying to regain her womb, I was  _ terrified. _ I thought…I thought, I don’t want to see her heartbroken when it doesn’t work, when she can’t get her choice back. And instead of saying any of  _ that,  _ I….” He can’t make himself repeat it, hearing his own voice like a shout in his head, telling Yennefer she’d be a terrible mother, calling them both  _ tools _ . “I just…I say terrible things.”

He stops again, because that explained it, a little, but it’s still not  _ right.  _ And he doesn’t know how to say it, what he’s even trying to say. His nails dig into his palm where he clenches his fist, frustrated with himself.

Jaskier takes a breath and murmurs, “You lash out when you’re feeling too much. Especially when you’re scared.”

Geralt blinks at him. That’s it, that’s what Geralt was trying to get at. As if Jaskier read his mind, but saw words there that Geralt himself couldn’t piece together. Like always. And then the guilt is back with force, because it’s just like it always is – Geralt unwilling or unable to name his own experiences, and Jaskier forced to do it for him. For twenty years. He’s _used_ Jaskier, and he’d never quite realized that was what it was, but now he knows, and it makes him sick to his stomach.

“You don’t have to – ” Geralt starts, half-growl, clenching his fist tighter. “ – you  _ shouldn’t _ have to explain my emotions to me. I don’t know why I  _ can’t,  _ why I’m so worthless at parsing what’s happening in my own godsforsaken head, but – ”

“Geralt,” Jaskier interrupts. “I know that.”

“What?”

Jaskier shakes his head when Geralt looks up to him. “Look – ” he runs a hand over his face and sighs, “ – you’ve been an ass. To Yennefer, to me, to all of us. And I want an apology, we  _ have  _ to talk about this, but – I said before. I don’t expect you to become a completely different person, Geralt. I’ve known you for more than half of my life. And for all of that time, you’ve been…well….” He trails off for a moment, looking slightly uncomfortable.

“Say what you’d like plainly,” Geralt prods. “Gods know I deserve it.”

Jaskier huffs and looks away. “I don’t – okay. Fine. You’ve been emotionally stunted, and brutish, and on rare occasions – like lately – downright cruel. You’ve lashed out when you’re upset, or afraid, or having any kind of heightened emotions at all, and you’ve always refused to acknowledge it, to apologize with your words or to change. And for the most part? It’s fine. You’ve always apologized in your own way, and I’ve always known that you didn’t mean most of what you said in the heat of the moment. But Geralt – it’s been  _ twenty years. _

“You have a child now, whether you like it or not, and now – what you said on that mountain, what you said in your bedroom…. It’s hard to believe that you could say all of that without meaning it. Do you understand what I mean?” He pauses for a moment, and Geralt nods, because he does. Jaskier explains it more anyway. “All of it sounded like things you’ve been holding back for – for gods even know how many years. So this time, I can’t let you do your usual song and dance, can’t let you avoid it.

“But I know it would be useless and unkind to refuse to help you. You don’t do those things because you  _ want _ to, you do them because it’s  _ all you know.  _ And I know that. I don’t want to overstep, I don’t want to – to push, like  _ I  _ always do. I know that I’m not free of blame here, always talking and prodding at you, never letting you have the peace you ask for. I know that, and I don’t want to keep doing it. But you don’t have to struggle through this without knowing what to say, what you mean. I still want to help. I just need to hear the words.”

Geralt opens his mouth to reply, but then the totality of what Jaskier has said filters through, and he frowns. “Jaskier,” he says, a little hesitant, “you don’t – there’s nothing  _ you _ need to apologize for. I’m in the wrong here.”

Jaskier smiles, but it’s strained, and he shakes his head. “No,” he says. “As much as I’d like to place all of the blame on your shoulders, Geralt, it’s not right. Some of what you said on that mountain was right.”

That makes Geralt flinch. “No, I – I didn’t….” The words catch in his throat, because they’re a lie, and he knows it. Jaskier knows it. Some of the things he’d shouted after that godsforsaken hunt had been the truth – Jaskier often talks and never says anything important, just spinning in flowery circles, and he never gives Geralt peace. But  _ that _ – that’s the thing. Geralt talks about peace, about quiet, but he doesn’t want it. Not anymore, at least, not  _ really, _ and maybe he should tell Jaskier this, clear the air for that at least –

He says, “I never really wanted it, Jaskier, I’d rather hear your voice than the quiet – ” at the same time that Jaskier says, “I’m sorry, Geralt, that I never listened to what you wanted.”

They both stop. Jaskier sucks in a deep breath, and Geralt takes the space to speak instead. “That’s not true,” he says, fervently, trying to catch Jaskier’s eyes. “It’s not. You – you always listen to what I want. Just because you don’t always  _ give  _ it – that means fuck all. You’ve always  _ listened. _ ”

“Geralt – ” Jaskier starts, and Geralt knows that tone, knows he’ll argue, and he just – he can’t let that happen. Not right now, not when he’s beginning to truly realize how deeply his words cut Jaskier.

“No, Jaskier, please,” he says, and Jaskier’s jaw snaps shut with a click. “I – it’s…. It’s hard for me, hard to say things like this. I’ve always struggled with it, and I know you know that, but I just…. I ask for your patience, again.”

Jaskier nods. “You already have it,” he confirms.

Geralt takes a deep, steadying breath, tries to set himself into the mindset for meditation without actually slipping down. His heart calms, slows, and his breathing slows as well. Jaskier waits, and there’s bound energy rolling off of him in waves, but Geralt had expected no less.

As awful as he’s been, as much as he avoids his feelings – he knows Jaskier, too. Twenty years. Measly, for a Witcher, really, but for Jaskier, it’s so much; and with Jaskier at his side, Geralt has begun to appreciate the passage of time in full.

He takes another breath, not letting himself overthink the words, or his emotions. “At first, I did crave the silence again. It’s always been quiet on the Path; just the wilderness, and the monsters, and Roach. I got used to the silence, to assuaging any need for sound with my own voice, or by going to towns and taverns. You came along and it was – it was  _ so much _ , Jaskier, you were –  _ are _ – so much. Bright, and loud, and obnoxious. And I wanted that quiet back, but that was only at first.”

There’s a pause while he fights the panic rising in his chest, the urge to cut the conversation short, to say something humorous or biting and run. He shakes and swallows it down.

“I don’t…I don’t know when it changed. But it changed. It started…when you were away, when we would split up for days or weeks or a month, I would miss it. The chatter, the music, your singing. Travelling wasn’t the same, the quiet  _ too  _ quiet, the silence bothersome. Taverns weren’t the same, either, not when it wasn’t you performing there.”

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes. His eyes are wide, tears welling up, and Geralt feels like something is squeezing his heart and lungs. “Geralt, I – ”

“ _ I’m sorry _ ,” Geralt says, feeling like it’s being cut from him, part stinging pain and part relief. “I’m so sorry, Jaskier, that I ever gave you reason to think that what I said on that mountain was true. That you could look at me and think I didn’t love you, that I don’t  _ need _ you. That I haven’t changed in twenty years, that in twenty years I haven’t figured out how to show you how important you are, how much you mean to me. I’m  _ sorry,  _ and it’s not enough – it won’t ever be enough, I know. But I  _ am,  _ so, so sorry, so much it hurts, enough that I’m willing to say and do whatever you need to trust me again. To fix this. If you’ll let me.”

Jaskier gasps, and the tears spill over, and Geralt wants to reach out but can’t. He sees his own hands shoving Jaskier against the wall in his room, smells the echo of blood, and it’s like he’s turned to stone, stuck just watching as Jaskier cries and wipes at his face. 

“ _ Geralt, _ ” Jaskier repeats, voice and hands both shaking. “Geralt, I –  _ of course _ I’ll let you, I want – I want to fix this, too.” He laughs a little, wet and breathy. “ _ Fuck _ , I didn’t mean to – I’m sorry I’m crying, I know you hate that – ”

“I hate it because I hate it when you’re hurt,” Geralt says, and suddenly, like the apology was the plug, he finds his words for real. “I always have, even when I didn’t even like you. With the elves, with the manticore after that, the fleder, the drowners – I never wanted to see you hurt. All those times you would lament over some lost love I ached, but I couldn’t tell you, couldn’t  _ say _ it, could barely admit it to myself. And even knowing it, even hating every time you’re hurt, I couldn’t help myself from  _ doing it,  _ from being the reason. From fillingless pie to now, and I’m  _ sorry,  _ and I want to change. I just don’t know how.”

Jaskier gives that little laugh again, still wiping furiously at his cheeks and eyes. “I’ll help,” he says. “ _ We’ll _ help.”

They’re silent for a moment while Jaskier gets his tears under control and Geralt fights the odd mix of elation and guilt warring for space in his stomach. Elation because he managed to apologize, to spit the words out, to admit that he wants to change; guilt because it took so long, because of what it took to get here, because of Jaskier’s tears.

Finally, Jaskier manages to stop the tears, and he takes a deep breath, wiping his hands on the bed. “Okay,” he says on the exhale, taking another deep breath after it. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry I made you cry,” Geralt murmurs, then flinches and adds, even quieter, “again.”

“It’s alright, this time,” Jaskier says. “I just – I didn’t exactly expect you to actually say the words, not like that, not without a significant amount of prodding. Took me by surprise, is all.”

“Ah.” The guilt manages to overtake the elation, now; he’s struck with the realization that this is very likely the first time he’s ever said the words  _ I’m sorry  _ out loud to Jaskier. “I….”

“It’s okay, Geralt,” Jaskier says, achingly genuine. “I promise. We’re not done, obviously, but this has already gone so much better than I anticipated. Honestly. I’m proud of you.”

“ _ Oh, _ ” Geralt can’t stop from gasping, the little sound practically pulled out of him on a hook. Jaskier  _ grins _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the Talk begins! 
> 
> love you all :D


	13. chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jaskier looks at Geralt, mere feet away on the end of the bed, sees the way that he looks guilty and shocked and relieved all at once, and he very much wants to touch him. He sees no reason that he should deny himself – or Geralt – that comfort._
> 
> The talk continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're getting past most of the whump! (kinda....sorta....again, you'll see. :D)
> 
> some books canon in this one! messed with, timeline-wise and with some events, but there. also some of jaskier's background! only a little, but some, nonetheless.

Jaskier looks at Geralt, mere feet away on the end of the bed, sees the way that he looks guilty and shocked and relieved all at once, and he very much wants to touch him. It’s a comfort thing, mostly; they’ve always been tactile,  _ always,  _ and even though this conversation is definitely nowhere near over and will still likely be difficult, he sees no reason that he should deny himself – or Geralt – that comfort.

“Come here,” he says, still smiling. When Geralt just blinks at him, Jaskier crooks his fingers and pats at the bed in front of him. It takes a moment, but Geralt moves, slowly and a little awkward, until he’s seated right in front of Jaskier. Their knees brush. “Thank you,” Jaskier murmurs, and reaches out to twine their fingers together.

Geralt jumps at the contact, eyes going down to where they’re touching. He bites his lip hard enough to bleach the skin of it white, and Jaskier reaches up to stop him without even thinking, thumb smoothing over the marks when Geralt’s teeth let go. Geralt’s eyes squeeze shut, and he takes a shuddering breath.

“Sorry,” Jaskier murmurs, and Geralt shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “It’s just – I thought….”

He waits, but Geralt doesn’t continue, eyes still squeezed shut and face twisted. “You thought what?”

Geralt swallows audibly. “That…that maybe you wouldn’t want to touch me. After – after what I did.” His breathing is shakier, now, and Jaskier tightens his grip where he’s holding Geralt’s hand.

“Why?” Jaskier asks. He knows, really, but the whole point of this is getting Geralt to use his words. To work out, out loud, what bitterness lies between them. It wasn’t a lie, what he said before; he wants to help Geralt, of  _ course  _ he does, but he’s still hurt, and he needs to hear the words. Needs to  _ know _ , for certain, that they’re on the same page.

“I – ” Geralt swallows again, ducking his head. Jaskier lets him do it, but keeps a tight grip on his hand, rests his other palm over Geralt’s knee. Contact, points to ground him. “I hurt you,” he whispers. “I – I shoved you. And you bled. I could smell it, and – ”

Jaskier hums to interrupt him. “It’s not the first time you’ve done it,” he says, and his voice is gentle, but it’s a harsh truth, one they don’t really talk about. “Made me bleed, I mean.” Geralt has hurt Jaskier, physically, many times – twenty years is a long time, and the Path is hardly a gentle place.

“No,” Geralt agrees, and his chin tucks closer to his chest. “But not – not like that.”

He fights the grin that tries to steal over his face. It’s not really appropriate, not right now, but it’s a struggle. He’s proud of Geralt – for saying these things, for understanding what Jaskier was saying. For staying, right now, instead of trying to run away again.

“You’re right,” Jaskier says. “It was different.” He strokes his thumb over Geralt’s knuckles, and Geralt makes a soft sound, barely even a breath.

“I didn’t…,” he starts. He pauses to take a deep, still-shaky breath, then continues. He’s still not looking at Jaskier, but that’s fine. Jaskier can see the effort it’s taking him to stay, to speak; he can allow the Witcher some amount of hiding. “I wasn’t going to come, this winter. I couldn’t face them. Not without you, not with what I’d done, and so I was…punishing myself. I thought I didn’t deserve the comfort of home, and I  _ don’t.  _ But I – I don’t know what happened. It was like I started travelling in Aedirn, and when I started paying attention to where I was, it was snowing in Ard Carraigh. And I’m weak. I looked up at the Blue Mountains and knew I only had a day, maybe two or three, to make it up the pass, and I couldn’t – I couldn’t stop myself.”

“That’s why you were so late,” Jaskier says. “…we were worried.”

Geralt makes a short, rough sound, something that Jaskier would call a laugh if it weren’t so broken. “I know,” he says, finally opening his eyes. “And then I – I just…. I did it all over again.”

Jaskier sucks at his cheek and fights the tremble that starts in his belly and wants to settle in his hands. “You did,” he says, because there’s no point in lying. “I know you said you didn’t mean it, about wanting peace, about wishing I would leave you alone. But Geralt…the rest of it. That was…,” Jaskier casts around for the right word, feeling that black, viscous feeling rising in his chest again, misery and rage like tendrils of sick magic. “…like you’d been holding it back for years.” It’s a repeat of something he said earlier, but it’s all he can settle on, swallowing down the lump in his throat that heralds more tears.

“ _ I’m sorry _ ,” Geralt says, and he sounds defeated, like he’s clinging to his composure by a fraying thread. Jaskier tightens his grip on the Witcher’s hand and knee automatically, rubbing soothing circles with his thumbs. “I was panicking. I knew that if I hurt you again, if I laid out everything I love about you as if I hated it, you would let me go. And I didn’t want to, I didn’t  _ mean it _ , but I still – I couldn’t stop myself. I needed to escape, and you were the only thing standing in my way, and I couldn’t  _ tell you _ any of this, because it was too much, too chaotic in my head. And then you still didn’t leave, and I – I didn’t know what else to do but shove you and run. It’s not an excuse, and I don’t deserve – ”

“Let’s not talk about  _ deserve, _ ” Jaskier suggests, because he knows all too well where that will go, and it’s not productive.

Geralt takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “And I want to tell you exactly how wrong everything I said was, but I can’t…everything is still so  _ jumbled. _ I can hardly remember what I said except that it was the worst I could come up with, just spat out without thinking.”

“I think I can remember well enough for both of us,” Jaskier says. He wants it to be a declaration, an assurance that he’ll help Geralt through this, but his voice sounds bitter. There’s not anything he can really do to fix that, either, so he swallows the lump in his throat and continues. “You said you wouldn’t take advice from me about running. Called me a coward and a leech.”

The flinch nearly takes Geralt’s hand away from Jaskier, but he holds tighter, and after a split second of hesitation, Geralt relaxes back into the touch. “I’m the coward, and I’m worse than a leech. I’ve  _ used _ you, Jaskier, for more than twenty years. Let you love me so loudly, let you give me everything and given you hardly anything back. I don’t know why you’ve stayed, why you’ve put up with me, why you’re  _ still here. _ ”

“Because I love you,” Jaskier answers. It wasn’t a question, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to let something like that sit without a reply.

“You shouldn’t,” Geralt mutters.

Jaskier huffs, tamping down on the spark of indignant anger in his chest. “You don’t get a say,” he says, instead of a myriad of things he  _ wants _ to say that won’t do anything except waste time. He knows Geralt isn’t saying it to be manipulative, not like Jaskier has heard a thousand times from dozens of others, but it rankles him all the same. “You were right, though.”

“About what?”

“The running.” Jaskier takes his hand off of Geralt’s knee to push his fingers through his hair, half an excuse to look away and half nervous habit. “I ran away from my responsibilities to my family, ran away from my  _ family, _ as soon as I graduated from the Academy, and never stopped. So, you were right about that, at least. Maybe I shouldn’t be trying to give you advice on staying and doing your duty, since I never could.” The bitterness is back, stronger and directed inward, now. He finds himself rubbing his fingers together, another nervous habit he’s never been able to kick; it started when he first learned to play the lute, something to soothe his sore fingers, and later just to feel the callouses.

“You didn’t claim a child and then abandon her,” Geralt points out, and Jaskier laughs, but it’s empty.

“I didn’t, you’re right.” He shakes his head. “But I ran away from my responsibilities all the same.”

“Your family would forgive you, I’m sure.”

Another laugh, shorter and sharper and somehow even emptier than before. “My family is dead, Geralt,” Jaskier spits, and he doesn’t mean it to be so harsh, doesn’t mean to sound like he’s angry at Geralt, because he’s  _ not. _ No, right now he’s angry with himself. In his mind’s eye, he sees five neatly-spaced graves in Lettenhove, and has to force down a sob.

Geralt’s fingers squeeze his. “…you never said.”

Jaskier shakes his head again, waving his free hand in a show of flippancy he doesn’t feel. “I didn’t want to burden you,” he says, soft. “It was years ago. I was sure that if I tried to talk to you about it, you’d insist I went back home, or leave me in a town somewhere for a while so you wouldn’t have to deal with my grief.”

“ _ Fuck. _ ” Geralt manages to tear his hand away from Jaskier’s. He drags both hands across his face and through his hair, a rough, jerky movement that expresses more than just frustration. Jaskier tries not to flinch backward when Geralt leans forward a little, balancing his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, movements jerky. “Fuck, Jaskier, I didn’t even  _ notice. _ ”

“In your defense, I was trying very hard to hide it. I’m a performer, love.”

“ _ Still _ .” Geralt tugs at his hair a little. “Gods, Jaskier, I’m  _ sorry. _ I’ve been a terrible friend and even worse lover.”

“Not really,” Jaskier says. “I mean,  _ lately,  _ yes, I won’t lie to you. But there’s only so much you can do when I’m hiding things from you, Geralt. I shouldn’t, and  _ don’t,  _ expect you to be a mind-reader.”

Geralt huffs, clearly disbelieving – Jaskier isn’t sure which part he’s disagreeing with, and doesn’t bother to ask. It feels perilously close to the  _ deserving _ conversation, and he’s still not interested in tumbling down that rabbit hole.

“My family really isn’t what we’re talking about, though,” he says, only partially because it’s the truth. Mostly, he’d like to change the subject, thoughts of his family bound up in too much grief and guilt to handle at this exact moment.

“You can,” Geralt says quickly, as if he’s afraid Jaskier won’t let him speak. He looks up from where he’s rested his head in his hands, and the look on his face is painfully earnest. “Jaskier, if you want to talk about your family, you  _ can.  _ I want you to be able to talk to me. I know I’m shit at – well, everything to do with emotions, but I want to  _ try. _ ”

Jaskier’s heart and stomach do something complicated and twisty, and he shifts to try and alleviate the odd sensation, hoping against hope that he’s not about to burst into tears again. He rests his hand on Geralt’s knee once more, fingers curled around his elbow. “I know,” he says. “Right now, we need to have a specific kind of conversation. Maybe another day I’ll talk about my family. Okay?”

Geralt nods, still with that earnest look on his face. “Okay,” he agrees. “Okay.”

“Thank you.” Jaskier takes a breath, counting it out in his head, hoping to calm himself. Geralt doesn’t interrupt, instead just shifting so their fingers can tangle over his knee. It’s hesitant, slow, and Jaskier’s heart skips a beat at the worried look in the Witcher’s eyes. Jaskier squeezes his hand. “You said you wanted nothing more than to travel the Path, collect your coin, and die when you got too slow.”

Geralt snorts, and it’s derisive. “It’s a lie I’ve been trying to convince myself of for nearly a century,” he says. “Haven’t succeeded yet. Doesn’t stop me from trying.”

“You should stop trying,” Jaskier suggests, and it falls a little flat, but there’s the tiniest twitch at the corner of Geralt’s mouth. Not a smile, not even close, but more than Jaskier was expecting. He squeezes Geralt’s hand again. “For both our sakes.”

“I know.” Geralt drags his free hand over his face, scratching almost absently through his stubble. “I’ve…always wanted more,” he murmurs, barely more than a breath. “But I was taught that I wasn’t  _ allowed  _ more. That Witchers don’t get anything more. There’s the Path, and coin, and monsters. Dying alone,  _ being _ alone, for however many centuries it takes to run ragged. And….”

Once more, Jaskier waits for the continuation when Geralt trails off, but it seems Geralt is momentarily lost in his own head. He strokes his thumb over Geralt’s wrist, feeling the steady, too-slow pulse of his heart just under the thin skin. “And?” he asks, when he can’t tolerate the contemplative silence any longer.

Geralt jolts a little, almost as if he’d forgotten Jaskier entirely. “And,” he repeats, looking away, “and then you started following me. You have always been the definition of  _ more _ , Jaskier. Bright and happy and confident and – well. Feral. I wanted to  _ keep _ you, but I knew it was wrong, knew I didn’t deserve it. But you stayed anyway, no matter what I did, and at some point I just…gave in. I could rationalize it, I thought – if you wouldn’t go, it wasn’t  _ my  _ fault. I wasn’t taking something that didn’t belong to me, as a Witcher, if I kept trying to push you away and you wouldn’t go.

“Sometimes I look at you and it almost hurts. I’m always afraid that one day, we’ll separate, and that will be the time you finally see sense and don’t come back. I’ve felt like I’ve been waiting on a precipice, anticipating the fall for years, terrified that  _ this _ will be it. Or this, or this. On the mountain….

“On the mountain, I just kept fucking up. Again and again, with Yennefer, and then with you, and…I just thought, this should be it. Yennefer walked away, and I expected you to do it, too, but you  _ didn’t,  _ and I was…too much of a coward to let it be. Too godsdamned scared that you didn’t mean it, that you would still leave, just when I thought you might not, and too godsdamned scared to even own up to that fear. So I tried pushing you away again.”

Jaskier feels like he’s been gutted. It’s exactly as he’d thought, in the dark of the nights in Ard Carraigh. Geralt didn’t mean any of it, and he  _ needed,  _ and Jaskier had left him alone. “And this time, I walked away,” he breathes. “I –  _ fuck,  _ Geralt, if I had  _ known _ – ”

Geralt shakes his head, grip on Jaskier’s hand almost bruising now. “ _ No, _ ” he says, emphatic. “If you don’t expect me to read your mind, I can’t fault you for being unable to read mine. Don’t blame yourself for my shortcomings.”

There’s an argument on the tip of Jaskier’s tongue, but he bites it back. He wouldn’t let Geralt make the argument, so he can hardly be a hypocrite here and make it himself. It’s hard, though, his whole chest aching at the realization that if he’d just stayed, just  _ waited,  _ that maybe all of this could have been avoided. Maybe, if he hadn’t taken those shouted words so personally, they could have worked it out on the mountain, and come to Kaer Morhen together this year. Like they should have, like they always have.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier murmurs, finally. “I know you don’t think I should be, but I am. I’m always pushing you when you need space, and never pushing when you need the help.”

“You can’t be faulted for trying, Jaskier,” Geralt says softly. “You’re the only one who ever has. It makes sense that you’d get it wrong sometimes. After all, in twenty years, I still haven’t gotten it right with you.”

“Yes you have,” Jaskier scoffs. “Gods, Geralt – you act like I’ve been suffering this whole time, that I spent two decades of my life completely miserable. You’re a brute sometimes, Witcher, but there’s so much  _ more _ to you. I stayed for the  _ more, _ because it was always worth it. I’m having this conversation for that more, because I don’t want to lose you. Even the boorish parts.”

“There’s  _ more _ to you, too,” Geralt says, and that sincerity is back in full force. “You’re so much more than your mistakes, or your chatter, or the – uh – less than intelligent choices for bed partners.”

Jaskier snorts. “Nicely put.”

“I was trying to be polite.”

“Not much  _ polite _ about a persistent habit of fucking married men and women,” Jaskier points out, and Geralt  _ almost  _ rolls his eyes. Jaskier can see him steeling himself against it. “No need to sugarcoat it, Geralt. You weren’t exactly  _ wrong _ when you said I can’t keep my cock in my pants for the space of a conversation, and we both know it.”

“Yes,” Geralt nods, though he’s frowning. “But it’s not – I don’t think it’s a bad thing. Not like I implied with that.”

“You’re allowed,” Jaskier says. “I do know how frustrating having to save me all the time can get. You’re not exactly quiet about it, anyway, but I sometimes tire of the running, so I’m sure  _ you’re _ even more tired than I am.”

Geralt shakes his head. “No, it’s…honestly?” He smiles a little, and it’s  _ sheepish,  _ an expression Jaskier has rarely seen on his face. It makes his stomach flip, half something like butterflies, as if he’s still a schoolboy, and half concern for what in the world  _ Geralt _ could be sheepish about. “It’s…fun. Annoying, yes, and there have been times I’ve considered tanning your hide for getting us kicked out of inns, but – even terrified for your life and balls and running, you’re always  _ laughing,  _ and singing and – it’s contagious. You’ve never cared much for consequences, and it’s…almost refreshing. To just deal with what happens when it happens instead of thinking fifteen steps ahead.”

Jaskier finds himself smiling, unable to stop himself, and he brings a hand up to cover it, certain he’s blushing, too. Gods, he’s forty years old, and still goes pink in the face because of some minor compliments?

Then again, this  _ is _ Geralt. Hardly a man of many words, known more for his actions. It’s unusual to hear Geralt complimenting him.

“…thank you, I suppose,” he says, once he’s got a handle on his odd, fluttery feelings. Once settled, though, a thought occurs to him. “You said…,” he starts, frowning while he thinks of how to address it, “…you spent years expecting me to just up and leave. I know you wouldn’t have wanted to talk about it, if you’d even had the words, but – what happened?”

“What do you mean?”

Jaskier’s frown deepens. “It’s…. Forgive me for being, well, a little  _ presumptuous,  _ Geralt, but I’m – I’m  _ rather  _ good at reading you. Can’t read your mind, of course, and I know you don’t expect me to. But over the years, I had to learn to understand the things you didn’t or  _ wouldn’t _ say. And there’s…at first, when this started – when you first brought me here,” he waves a hand around, indicating the castle as a whole, “you were…well,  _ happy. _ It was the most content I’d ever seen you, and that – that  _ lasted.  _ For a while. I didn’t notice it changing, but it must have. What happened?”

Geralt sucks in a breath, slightly too slow and steady to be anything except perfectly intentional. Jaskier freezes, unsure if maybe he’s crossed a line now, or assumed something he shouldn’t have, or said something wrong, but Geralt squeezes his hand and lets the breath go, just as slow as he took it.

“It wasn’t just one thing,” Geralt finally murmurs, looking away from Jaskier, over to the side of the room. “I don’t know, exactly, when it changed.  _ What _ changed. It was gradual. You were late, once or twice, to meet up with me – after a performance for some lordling or another, and after that festival in Beauclair, the one you spend with Lambert and Aiden. And I guess…I just started to think about it. Too much, like always.”

“What were you thinking?” Jaskier almost doesn’t want to ask the question, but he knows it’s important.

“About them, I suppose,” Geralt says, and he’s so quiet Jaskier wouldn’t be able to hear him if they weren’t so close. “Lambert and Aiden, and Eskel. Some of the other lovers you’ve taken, whoever it is you go to see each spring.”

Jaskier ignores the way his stomach swoops at that – he can tell Geralt where he was going, now, though obviously not right this second. “I don’t want to assume, Geralt, but – ”

“Not jealous,” Geralt interrupts. “Just…it’s hard, sometimes, to understand what you see in me. Lambert can match your enthusiasm, albeit in his own way, and he’s much more talkative than me. Eskel, he’s  _ kind,  _ almost to a fault, and so gentle with everyone, but especially you. The nobility, they have the education to understand your poems, the money and the time to lavish you in the attention you deserve. And in the spring, it’s –  _ they’re _ constant. The most constant thing in your life aside from Oxenfurt and me, and I’m a  _ Witcher. _ ”

“ _ Geralt. _ ” Jaskier reaches out and grabs his other hand, pulling them between their legs, so he can cup both of Geralt’s hands in his own. “My love. Do you want to know what I see in you?”

He waits for the response, not sure if Geralt is up for his usual flowery ramblings, but Geralt nods. He looks…almost hopeful. Jaskier’s chest aches, fiercer than before.

“Darling,” Jaskier murmurs, and brings Geralt’s hands up to kiss his knuckles. “I’ll admit that at first, I was just looking for an adventure. What made me approach you in Posada was a mix of youthful confidence and stubborn desire to do something real. But that wasn’t what made me follow you, Geralt. Do you know what did?”

Geralt shakes his head, silent. Jaskier smiles, feeling the prick of tears at the memory.

“You gave me your last coin,” Jaskier says. “You told me that the monsters in my song weren’t real, and all but completely shunned me with barely a handful of words – but when you stood up, Geralt, you gave me the last coin you had. And sure, after that you punched me in the gut and we got kidnapped by a sylvan and elves – ”

“And nearly killed for the effort,” Geralt murmurs. “Despite what your song says.”

Jaskier chuckles. “Be that as it may,” he shakes his head, “you told them to let me go. You didn’t even know my name, Geralt. To you, I was a nuisance and a liability, a human bard that was serving as nothing more than a thorn in your side. And you still decided to try and save my life, even as prickly as you were about it. Then you gave the elves the money you’d been paid to get rid of the sylvan. I was sold when you dropped the coin on that table, Geralt, but that? An act of charity toward the elves that had tied us up, broken my lute, and kicked us bloody?  _ That  _ showed me exactly what kind of man you were and are. I never believed those stories about Blaviken, not really, and after meeting you I knew they were wrong.”

Geralt flinches a little, but doesn’t pull back or look away. “Not as wrong as you think,” he murmurs. “But…thank you.”

“I’m not finished,” Jaskier smiles. “What I see in you, Geralt, is  _ goodness. _ Goodness, and kindness, and an unfailing desire to  _ remain _ good no matter what. You smile at children, and help widows with house chores, and refuse payment from the poverty-stricken. For over twenty years, Geralt, I have watched you, and you are, without a doubt, one of the best men I’ve ever known. You’re loyal, and strong, and fair, and so many other things – I could, really, truly, write an entire epic about everything I love about you.”

“Please don’t,” Geralt breathes, but he sounds less pleading or embarrassed and more flat-out stunned. His eyes are shining, and Jaskier squeezes his hands.

“I just might, no matter your complaints,” Jaskier teases, but he strokes his thumbs over Geralt’s skin, leans forward and presses his forehead to Geralt’s. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “that I didn’t notice that you were suffering. That I wasn’t able to see how afraid you were. But you won’t lose me, Geralt, not like that. I will always come back to you, no matter what.”

Geralt takes a shaky breath, and his eyes close. “Jaskier,” he murmurs. “I…I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to,” Jaskier assures. “I’m proud of you, you know. For this.”

There’s several moments of silence. Jaskier watches Geralt’s face and holds his hands tightly, listening to the shaky breaths he’s taking. Finally, Geralt decides to break the silence, though not with anything Jaskier would expect.

“Do you want to know the whole story about Blaviken?” he asks, and there’s hesitation there, fear. Jaskier holds his hands a little tighter, stomach twisting at the thought of his search for Renfri –  _ don’t think I don’t know you’ve been hiding something. _

“If you want to tell me,” Jaskier answers after a moment. He’s not sure what’s left of the story, what more Geralt could tell him now that he hasn’t told him already. He knows the basics – Geralt was used as a pawn by Stregobor, and Renfri’s desire for revenge made it impossible for Geralt to remain neutral. He knows some more of the details, too, since that night with the sword and the brooch, when he realized what his dreams meant; how Renfri had been abused, how she’d never had a choice in becoming Shrike, not really. How she’d promised Geralt she’d leave Blaviken, and hadn’t been lying, but Geralt never got to find out what changed.

Geralt takes several deep breaths. “I saw myself in her,” he murmurs. “We met at the tavern, before I had even been told about Master Irion – Stregobor, using a dead mage’s name for whatever reasons. She stopped the men there from attacking me. Bought me a beer, offered to buy me breakfast. Immediately, there was something about her. I couldn’t tell you what it was – then, or now. But she was…important.”

“I know you hate this word,” Jaskier says, “but that’s usually called  _ destiny. _ ”

“Hm.” Geralt’s face shifts for a moment, not really a smile, but a smaller frown for just a bit. “Stregobor wanted me to choose the lesser evil. So did she. And I thought that there was no lesser evil, that evil was evil; it turns out that Renfri was right all along. That night, when she’d told me she was leaving, I had a dream. She was talking to me, telling me something –  _ you’re in the market, covered in blood; you say you can’t choose, but you had to. _ My reward, she said, would be a stoning. Somehow, she knew what would happen, and she told me. I should have listened.”

Jaskier doesn’t have words, not for that. He suddenly understands so much better why this has lingered with Geralt for so many decades, why he still flinches at the mention of Blaviken, why he struggles to even say Renfri’s name.

He still feels guilty, hiding his search from Geralt. But now, he’s even more sure that he can’t tell Geralt until he’s  _ certain. _ And more than that, he knows he has to find her. Dead or alive, or both and neither – he  _ has to find her _ . For Geralt’s sake, and at this point, his own, too.

Geralt takes a slow, shuddering breath, and continues. “When – after – ” he stops with a soft, broken sound, and then forges on, “she died in my arms, but her last words were still – she was still trying to help me, I think.  _ The girl in the woods will be with you always. _ ”

“The girl in the woods?”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Geralt opens his eyes. “It was Cirilla,” he says, almost as if he doesn’t want to. Jaskier’s mouth drops open, and he has about three  _ million _ questions about  _ that,  _ but Geralt holds up his hand.

“It was – two, three years ago? Three, at the most. I took a contract from King Venzlav to take a message to Eithné, the dryad queen. I found Cirilla in the forest.”

Jaskier blinks. “And you –  _ Geralt.  _ You didn’t tell me this at all. And neither did  _ she. _ ”

Geralt has the decency to look ashamed, at least. “I didn’t know until we got out,” he says, “that it was her. I found her about to be the dinner of a giant insectoid, killed the thing, and got her out. She was barely ten, if that. Brokilon is dangerous, even if the dryads would have had use for her, and she told me her name was Fiona. I never gave her my name, and I don’t think she would have known it anyway. A group of Cintran knights that she knew found us right outside the forest, and I gave her to them. I didn’t really think about it until I saw Mousesack.”

Jaskier blows out a breath. “Geralt,” he says, “I’m really very sorry to bring it up again, but  _ please _ tell me you believe in destiny  _ now. _ ”

Geralt frowns, but doesn’t disagree. Jaskier supposes he’ll take that for the acquiescence it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright. i've been considering how to sort of mention this for a few updates now and i don't really have a good answer yet, so i guess i'll just say it - 
> 
> there are some of you who feel like jaskier is "making this too easy" on geralt. and while that's a valid thought, it's...not true. and, more than that, when things like this happen in long-term, committed relationships, relationships that _are_ good and deserve to continue with work, there really should not be a "well they did x bad thing, so their partner should be x amount of bad back". it's not healthy. it's counter-intuitive to the idea of owning up to mistakes and fixing things. "an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind," after all. 
> 
> with that said, though, i _do_ understand how a lot of this could look like letting geralt get off easy. i feel like with the next several updates, that opinion will change - _but,_ in case it doesn't, when this fic is over i will be putting up a post on the fireandpowder blog about this - reasons why i chose what i did, things that happen off-screen, etc. so you can see exactly what the process is/was, without the constraints of a narrative that needs to move forward preventing us from exploring every little detail. 
> 
> if you would like, you can ask questions in the comments, send asks, or message me on discord (nitwitchery#7070), and i'll compile a list of specific questions to answer in that post! (if a question is asked in a comment, or on anon on tumblr, i will not be answering it until this fic is finished posting and i can make that tumblr post. if you have a question you really need/want answered immediately, i'm willing to do that in a private setting on tumblr or discord for you. don't want to spoil others if they don't want it!)
> 
> okay, sorry for the wall of text but i really felt like that needed to be addressed - once again as always, i love you all :D


	14. chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What breaks the tension between them is Jaskier’s stomach grumbling._
> 
> The talk goes on. Geralt is reminded that his family still loves him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no proper notes for this rn. just please imagine me making a dumb face at you, like a particularly dim boston terrier with its tongue hanging out of its mouth.

Geralt finds he doesn’t know how to fill the silence. He’s not sure he  _ should, _ and it’s odd, really, that he’s the one looking to fill it now, when Jaskier is just looking at him, contemplative and…well, not  _ sad,  _ not really, but Geralt doesn’t know what else to call it.

Finally, what breaks the tension between them is Jaskier’s stomach grumbling.

Jaskier flushes and laughs softly. “I guess it has been a while since breakfast,” he murmurs. “Actually – what time  _ is  _ it?”

Geralt studies the light filtering in through the high window. “Lunch time,” he says. “Maybe a bit later.”

Jaskier hums. “I suppose we ought to go down and eat, then.” But he sounds unsure, and as he says it, Geralt finds  _ himself _ feeling unsure, too.

“I can go grab something,” he offers. “And bring it back?”

_ That way it’ll be less of an interruption, _ he thinks, before he’s even realized that that is  _ why  _ the idea of both of them leaving the bedroom feels wrong.

Jaskier smiles, looking much less hesitant now. “That would be wonderful,” he murmurs, and Geralt nods.

He’s a little reluctant to go, mostly because he doesn’t want Jaskier to let go of his hands, but he does it anyway. Jaskier is still smiling at him when the door closes behind him. He takes a moment to lean against the heavy wood and just breathe, the sheer magnitude of the last several hours sweeping through him. It’s not  _ bad _ , per se, just slightly overwhelming; he doesn’t think he’s spoken that many words, honest and not in distraction, in a row for – decades, probably. Likely not since after the Trials.

Once he’s had a moment to steady himself, to readjust his equilibrium, he pushes off the door and heads toward the kitchens. He can vaguely hear movement around the castle; what sounds like Lambert and Coën in the courtyard, and Vesemir somewhere on the floor above. He can’t pin anything down that he recognizes as Ciri, but she’s likely with one of the others or in the room they set up for her next to Coën’s. He’s so distracted by puzzling out where she might be that he nearly runs straight into Eskel at the bottom of the steps.

Eskel dodges out of the way at the last second, and Geralt reaches out to steady him, however unnecessarily; there’s a moment where both of them are tense as the shock runs through their systems, and then they both relax. Geralt notices that Eskel has a tray in his hands, stacked with some bread and cheese and the last of the fruit that isn’t dried or cooked into something that lasts longer.

“Was bringing it up,” Eskel explains. “Since you two didn’t come down for lunch.”

Geralt nods, reaching out to try and take the tray. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and there’s more said in his voice than there is in the words. Eskel’s eyes soften, and instead of giving Geralt the tray, he carefully sets it down on a step. Before Geralt can ask, Eskel is stepping into his space, one hand on the back of his neck as he presses their foreheads together.

Something jagged in Geralt’s chest suddenly settles back into place, edges smoothed, and he brings his own hands up to clasp over the back of Eskel’s neck. For a long moment, they just breathe together, until each breath and heartbeat are synced.

“I love you, Geralt,” Eskel murmurs, finally, and Geralt’s breath catches in his throat. Eskel’s hand squeezes his neck, a gesture of comfort, and Geralt closes his eyes, just for a second, gathering his bearings.

“I love you, too, Eskel,” he whispers, words only a little stilted. While he’s gotten much more comfortable expressing these things out loud over the years, it’s still unfamiliar to do it with anyone aside from Jaskier. But Geralt knows, with everything he’s put his family through, they deserve to hear him use the words. Especially Eskel.

Eskel is smiling when Geralt opens his eyes. It’s small, but genuine, and he shifts to press a short, chaste kiss to Geralt’s forehead before he’s stepping back. Geralt lets him go, only a little reluctant.

“Go back,” Eskel says, jerking his head toward the bedrooms as he picks the tray back up and passes it over. Geralt takes it instinctually. “I doubt everything got finished in a handful of hours.”

Some part of Geralt’s pride prickles at that, but he shoves it down, swallowing the sharp words that rise in his throat. Instead, he hums another thank you, and goes back up the stairs. He feels Eskel’s eyes on him until he turns the corner, away from view, and for some reason it’s comforting.

As he walks to the end of the hall, though, he starts to think about what Eskel said.  _ I doubt everything got finished, _ and Geralt realizes he’s right. There’s a handful of things that have still gone unsaid, some things that still need to be addressed. He pauses at the door to think over some of it, but doesn’t give himself enough time to  _ over _ think it before he’s balancing the tray and opening the door.

Jaskier is still sitting on the bed, though he’s got one of his journals in his lap now, and he’s scribbling something in it. Geralt hums to announce himself, and Jaskier looks up, almost looking caught. Geralt quirks a brow, but Jaskier shakes his head and sets aside the quill and journal.

Geralt sets the tray on the bed in front of him, then turns and grabs the little table and drags it over to the edge of the bed. He moves the tray to it, instead, and Jaskier shifts easily to sit next to him. They eat in silence, Jaskier giving Geralt most of the bread, and Geralt leaving most of the fruit for him. It’s easy and familiar, even with the small edge of tension that remains between them, the remainder of what they need to talk about. The things that they need to say.

He’s not quite sure how long this endeavor will take, but he finds himself okay with not knowing. It’s unfamiliar for him to find comfort in uncertainty; unfamiliar enough that there’s a part of him that rankles, an instinct that tells him to bare his teeth and find steadier footing. Instead of paying any attention to it, he studies Jaskier out of the corner of his eye.

The bard doesn’t look his age. He never has, but Geralt is struck, suddenly, with the knowledge that Jaskier is forty years old – they’d celebrated his birthday in spring. There are some fine lines around his eyes and his mouth that speak to years, to smiles and laughter and the dramatic expressions he’s always been prone to. But not the lines of a forty-year-old, not really. He looks closer to thirty, maybe even younger. Despite that, Geralt  _ knows _ he’s aged, has watched him go from an overeager and overconfident young man to an equally overeager man who can back up his confidence.

What thoughts follow that are not ones he wants to focus on, though, so he forcibly steers himself away from them.

There’s a beat of silence when they’ve finished all of the food, and then they’re speaking.

Geralt says, “I want you to know that I don’t expect you to always tell me everything,” at the same time that Jaskier says, voice nervous, “On the mountain, you said I was hiding something.”

Both of them pause, and Jaskier huffs, rubbing a hand across his face. “I think we’re talking about the same thing,” he says. “You first.”

Geralt nods. “I noticed,” he says, forcing his voice steady, “that you were spending more time at Oxenfurt, and spending quite a bit on messages through mages.” He tries to ignore the way Jaskier winces and frowns; he knows that the bard had thought he was being sneaky, and really, he  _ had  _ been. The issue is more that Geralt is cursed to be instinctually more observant than ten men combined. He doesn’t always know what to do with his observations, but they remain present all the same. “I…assumed it had something to do with your intelligence work. But on the mountain, I was….”

“Looking for the words that would hurt,” Jaskier finishes for him, and the look on his face  _ isn’t _ pitying, but Geralt feels as if he’s being pitied anyway. He shifts his shoulders to quell the itch between his shoulder blades and grits his teeth until his jaw creaks. “And the implications, well. Those were a good weapon.”

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Geralt mutters, because Jaskier is right. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Jaskier says. He slides a hand over Geralt’s knee, and Geralt flinches, but doesn’t move away, making himself sit with the vague discomfort of touch he feels he doesn’t deserve. He can’t make himself touch back, though.

“I didn’t – I  _ don’t  _ think you should have to tell me everything,” Geralt murmurs, finally. “You have a whole life outside of me, outside of our travels. There is no reason I should be privy to any of it, if you don’t want me to be.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, quietly and with feeling. There’s a softness in his voice that makes Geralt’s chest squeeze and ache, like it used to before all of this – before they became lovers, before Jaskier became so ingratiated into his life that Geralt isn’t quite sure what his life would actually look like without the bard.

He’d gotten a glimpse in the last months since the dragon hunt. It was bleak and deeply upsetting.

“You are right, in a way,” Jaskier continues after a pause. “It has to do with my intelligence work.”

“Jaskier, you don’t have to tell me anything.”

“I know that.” Jaskier squeezes his knee, a soft touch but a firm one, nonetheless. “But I want you to know – I can’t give you details, not right now. For varied reasons, but the biggest is that it is a…precarious situation.”

“Okay.” Geralt finds himself oddly comforted, having even just that information. He really hadn’t initially assumed anything  _ untoward,  _ nothing like what he’d said implied. But the implications were there, of course.

“I will tell you,” Jaskier goes on. “I  _ will.  _ I promise you that. Just – not right now.”

Geralt nods. “I understand,” he says, and it’s not a lie. “I – I trust you, Jaskier. As much as it seems like I must not, I do. And I trust your judgement; if you say you can’t tell me something, then you can’t. If you say you will, eventually, then you will. I’m sorry that I ever doubted that, even if I didn’t realize I was.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier says. Geralt can tell it’s not exactly what he meant to say, but that it’s genuine all the same. The grip on his knee goes tighter for a moment, almost to pain but not over the line, and Jaskier shifts so their shoulders are brushing.

Silence settles between them for the space of a few breaths, more relaxed than the last, though still tense. Geralt finds himself scrambling through his mind to find something to say. Terrified, even if he wouldn’t admit it, that if they stop talking, something will be left to fester and nothing will be fixed. An idea strikes him, and he frowns to himself.

They have to talk about Ciri, eventually. Even if he doesn’t want to.

“This morning,” he starts, and Jaskier hums a quiet acknowledgement that he’s listening. “The story Cirilla was telling.”

Jaskier tenses suddenly. Geralt is about to – apologize? Ask? He’s not sure – but then Jaskier takes a deep breath and relaxes.

“That,” he says quietly. “Well. I suppose I should come clean, then.”

“Come clean?” Geralt doesn’t like the way his heart sinks, how his mind goes immediately to the worst-case scenario. He forces himself to remember Jaskier’s earlier words,  _ you won’t lose me, Geralt, not like that,  _ no hint of the sour scent of a lie in the air.

“I went back to Cintra,” Jaskier answers. “After the betrothal.”

And Geralt knew that, could extrapolate from the conversation this morning, the way that Ciri is much too comfortable around Jaskier for him to be a stranger. It’s not  _ news,  _ not really, but it still makes his heart skip, makes his stomach twist with something that’s just slightly too dark to be just guilt. It feels like betrayal, which is  _ asinine,  _ because Jaskier had no reason to stay away from Cintra because of Geralt’s refusal to accept his responsibility. In fact, he thinks he should probably be  _ thanking _ Jaskier for returning, for getting to know the princess, because he’s likely going to be the only bridge Geralt has to the girl.

She’s his now. Exactly like Jaskier said.

A voice in his head, one that sounds suspiciously like both Yennefer  _ and  _ Jaskier, whispers  _ ours. _

“I just – I wanted to check in,” Jaskier explains. “And I knew you would have been angry, if you knew I was going back.”

Geralt swallows the denial, because he knows it would be a lie. He just nods instead, an acknowledgement, even if he can’t quite spit the words out, because he doesn’t really know what to  _ say. _ He could apologize again, for his stubbornness, for his cowardice, but it would feel empty, he knows. Somewhere, deep down, he understands that he can’t apologize for those things because he doesn’t regret them enough.

There’s not any defense for it, not that he’s got right now. One day, he’ll either find his guilt or his explanation. Today isn’t the day to go digging for it, he decides, eyes flickering to where Jaskier is chewing his lip, clearly lost in thought for a moment on what to say next.

Geralt lets him be. He doesn’t have anything to add, not right now, and Jaskier will find his words soon enough. The bard is never without them for very long. He does wish he could express  _ that _ out loud, though, with all of the fondness he feels when he thinks it.

“At first it was just that,” Jaskier finally starts again. “Just checking in. I went, and I performed, and I watched from afar when Ciri was born, as she started to grow. And then, when she was about two, I – well, they offered me a job.”

“A job?” Geralt raises his eyebrows.

Jaskier chuckles a little. “Yeah, a job,” he says. “Mousesack was the one to speak to me about it; I was wanted as a music tutor. They had noticed how I kept coming back. I suspect Calanthe also just wanted to keep a closer eye on me. After all, if I was going to be there once or more a year anyway, it was better to keep me under close supervision than to let me wander about unmonitored.”

Geralt had to concede the point. As much as he hated it, he could see this from Calanthe’s point of view; if she was paranoid about Geralt returning to take her granddaughter, it would make sense to keep tabs on Geralt’s most well-known companion when he was performing around the child. He also had a realization, something he’d mentioned earlier.

“Spring,” he says. “You went in spring to teach her.”

Jaskier smiles. “I did. We agreed on a week spent in Cintra at the end of February each year to teach Ciri music. If I spent more time there, they usually paid me for that, too.”

“Good contract,” Geralt says, almost without thinking about it. Jaskier snorts softly.

“It was,” he agrees. “I wasn’t terribly concerned about the contract, though. Not really.”

“Of course not,” Geralt shook his head. “You had ulterior motives.”

“Can they really be called  _ ulterior _ when Mousesack was well aware, and he probably told Calanthe?”

Geralt snorts, too. “I suppose not.” He pauses, considering, and then continues. “She mentioned a bruxa this morning. What  _ happened? _ ”

Jaskier sighs and runs a hand over his face. “I’m not really sure why the bruxa was in the castle in the first place, or if any of the nobility were actual targets. But apparently, sometimes, there were more monsters than just Calanthe in the Cintran court.”

* * *

Their discussion takes several days, only broken up by regular meals (most brought up silently by Eskel), sleep (in separate rooms, because Geralt hadn’t had the courage to ask to stay), and one occasion where Coën needed Jaskier for – well, something. Geralt hadn’t asked, and no one had explained.

Aside from Coën’s and their body’s needs, their talk was uninterrupted. Geralt is thankful for it, though at the end of everything, when he and Jaskier have decided that everything they could possibly cover has been spoken about, he is also exhausted.

Jaskier kisses his cheek, an incredibly soft gesture, and tells him to go to bed and rest.

It’s late when he leaves Jaskier’s bedroom, but not late enough that everyone is asleep. He decides against going to bed immediately, instead heading down the stairs to the kitchen, searching for something simple to snack on. It’s an ingrained habit, at this point; winter is safe, which means he can eat whenever he’d like.

He hears Eskel, Coën, and Lambert when he passes, but doesn’t announce himself. It’s not that he doesn’t  _ want _ to see them, really; more that he’s still unsure as to whether they want to see him. Eskel, he knows, would welcome his company. But Lambert and Coën, he doesn’t know at all, and he doesn’t want to ruin their night by assuming.

But when he comes back out of the kitchen, a small portion of cheese and nuts wrapped in a little cheesecloth, he finds Lambert waiting for him. He doesn’t have a chance to ask, to even make any noise, before Lambert has him by the back of his neck, not gentle but not a threat.

Scruffing him. Like he’s a wayward pup.

He doesn’t get the chance to fight it, to snarl or grab at Lambert back. Lambert swings them around so Geralt’s back is to a wall, and shifts right up into his space, grip still tight on the back of Geralt’s neck. He presses their foreheads together, almost too hard; a gesture of affection, firmed to match the scruffing.

His eyes are bright, and there’s a serious look on his face that stops Geralt’s protests in their tracks. Slowly, the tension seeps out from between them, until their breathing is synced, their heartbeats too. Geralt brings his free hand up to Lambert’s neck, his touch gentler than his brother’s, and Lambert takes a deep breath and lets the pressure of his touches go soft.

“Lambert?” Geralt asks quietly.

“You’re an idiot,” Lambert replies. “And a jackass.”

Geralt resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I know.”

Lambert huffs. “I know you and Jaskier have had your talk,” he murmurs softly. “And I’m sure he’s been as forgiving as always.”

“He has,” Geralt says. “Not without effort, mind you.”

“I know.” Lambert huffs again. “You’re stupid, and a prick, and for some reason I love you anyway. But I’m only going to give you this warning once.”

“Warning?”

“You shoved him into that wall,” Lambert reminds, and though his voice is serious, Geralt can hear the way it quiets and gentles. Not meant to be angry, then, just a statement of fact. “And he bled. Don’t do it again. It’s one thing for him to get hurt on the Path, because he did something stupid or you have to get him out of danger. Not here, not where it’s safe. Do you understand me?”

Something sharp and black twists in Geralt’s stomach, as if it was just waiting for the reminder. It’s something he and Jaskier discussed, of course, in a fashion, but he suddenly finds that it feels unfinished, somehow. He swallows back a broken sound, and squeezes the back of Lambert’s neck.

“I understand,” he answers solemnly. He does.

Lambert looks at him for a moment, looks straight into his eyes as if he could read Geralt’s mind. Geralt looks back, doesn’t shy away from the intense scrutiny. There’s a long moment where it’s nothing but that, Lambert staring at him and their breathing synced between them, and then it seems as if Lambert has found what he’s looking for.

“Good,” he says, and squeezes Geralt’s nape before letting go and stepping back. “Get some rest, pretty boy. You look like shit.”

Geralt rolls his eyes this time, and shoves Lambert to the side. Despite the ugly thing still twisting in his gut, it’s hard to fight the smile it brings to his face when Lambert makes an offended noise and shoves him back.

He pretends he doesn’t see the matching one on Lambert’s face, and goes up to his bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we are closing in on the proper, total resolution to the Big Angst here!!! like. two chapters left before it.
> 
> also, i updated the link to the BIKM server - if there's any problems with it, please let me know! and if you have a discord, feel free to come join us being perverted bastards and loving each other a lot :D


	15. chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Geralt thinks about it for a day before he brings it up to Jaskier._
> 
> Some more talking and some more family love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! it's wednesday! time is _not_ real!
> 
> also, putting this here as well as in the end notes so people should see it: hi, the continued comments about "punishing" geralt or "making him suffer" make me _super_ uncomfortable. the number of them did drop significantly after my note about the post i'll be making (thank you for that!), but i still got a few, and i just want y'all to know i _really_ do not want to see any more. again, if you feel like he hasn't paid properly for what he's done, i'm sorry - i'll be addressing any questions you want to ask in that future post, as well as a lot of different little things regarding this. but please do not continue to tell me how much you wish he'd suffer more. thanks!

Geralt thinks about it for a day before he brings it up to Jaskier.

Despite their talk, everything is still a little tentative between them. Warmer, certainly, and it feels better now, like there’s no more rot and sickness in his chest, but there’s hesitance. Mostly from his side; he still hasn’t been able to reach out to Jaskier and initiate touch. He’s not sure if Jaskier has noticed or not, but he thinks Vesemir has. The elder Witcher has been giving him these looks, somewhere caught between concern and pity; Geralt hasn’t addressed them, though, and Vesemir hasn’t brought anything up.

Even having decided to do it, he’s still not quite sure what he’ll say as he walks the hall toward Jaskier’s room, where he can hear the bard shuffling around. He knows, more or less, what he  _ needs, _ what he wants to ask of Jaskier – but the words to  _ ask _ it, those are much more difficult to dig up.

Jaskier startles when Geralt raps against the door, but gives a slightly breathless, “Come in!” all the same. Geralt schools his smile and opens the door, slipping in and shutting it behind himself quietly.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, and he’s smiling. “I was actually going to come find you soon.”

He’s thrown from his thoughts. “You were?”

Jaskier nods, leaning over and digging in a pack for something. “I have something for you,” he says.

Geralt blinks. “You...do?”

“Yeah.” Jaskier sits back up and he’s holding a journal. Aside from the color and the tooling on the leather, it looks exactly like one of his journals he uses for lyrics and music notes. “I didn’t really bring it thinking it would be a gift for you, honestly. But I was thinking…. Well.”

“You were thinking?” Geralt prompts, unsure what he’s feeling at this turn of events. It’s not...bad, but he has the sneaking suspicion that it could  _ turn  _ bad quickly. 

Jaskier looks away for a second. “It’s not…. I don’t mean it badly, but I thought maybe it would be good if you had a hobby.”

“A...hobby?” He has a hobby, and he’s sure Jaskier knows it.

“A hobby, preferably one that doesn’t require other people,” Jaskier confirms. “Like – okay. Eskel reads. Lambert – well, he gambles, but he also likes brewing and alchemy. Vesemir gardens.”

Geralt thinks on that for a moment. It makes sense, he supposes; to play cards, he has to be around people – something he doesn’t do often, and generally doesn’t like a whole lot. Jaskier doesn’t know as much about the games as him, and is easily bored with  _ playing  _ them (he can watch for hours, though). Having a hobby that he can engage in when he’s alone on the Path, or doesn’t want to interact with other people, could be nice.

“Okay,” he says finally. “What – what do you suggest?”

Jaskier shrugs. “I didn’t really have anything specific in mind, but I thought – maybe you could draw? Or write – even if it’s just journaling.”

“I can’t draw,” Geralt says immediately. Of course, he can  _ kind of _ draw – he can sketch out plants and other things necessary to his Path. But aside from that, he’s never drawn anything, and never thought to try.

Another shrug, and Jaskier smiles. “You could learn?” he suggests. “It’s okay if you don’t want the journal, I just thought maybe – ”

“I’ll try,” Geralt says, too quick, voice cracking slightly. “I – I’m not sure if I’ll draw. But I can...think of something else, if not. To use it. I’ll take it, if you still want to give it to me.”

“Of course.” Jaskier’s smile goes from normal, maybe a bit dimmed from Geralt’s opposition, to absolutely beaming. He’s proud. Geralt swallows, and takes a few steps forward so he can reach out and take the journal. Their fingers brush and it feels oddly electric; he ignores it and tucks the journal under his arm.

“So,” Jaskier says, casually. “What did you come in here for?”

Geralt swallows again. “Ah, I – I wanted to…ask you something,” Geralt starts, frowning slightly. The words still aren’t coming to him, but he supposes Jaskier has listened to him fumble for several days already, and he’s shown the patience of the gods. This should be no different..

“Alright,” Jaskier nods. “What is it?”

“It’s about…us,” Geralt tries, then shakes his head. “I – I know we’ve talked. And we agreed that everything had been discussed – ”

“Is there something else you want to talk about?” Jaskier asks, looking concerned. He doesn’t sound indignant, or as if he’s judging Geralt, though. “Just because we agreed doesn’t mean something else can’t come up, Geralt.”

That reassurance settles something in Geralt’s stomach, and he sighs. “It’s…we did, talk about it,” he says. “Kind of. But I feel like….”

“Like it wasn’t addressed properly,” Jaskier finishes for him without much pause. He’s smiling again, though it’s small and clearly meant to be encouraging. “That’s alright. What is it? Here, sit if you’d like.” He gestures to a chair, and sits on the bed himself.

Geralt takes him up on the offer and sits, resisting the urge to run his hands through his hair. It feels stupid, how nervous he is right now. The past several days’ experience tell him that this, talking about it, asking for what he needs, will be difficult, but helpful. Somehow he still can’t seem to get his subconscious to believe him.

“I’m…not sure how to say it,” he starts. There’s words, of course, that he could use, but they all seem harsh, short and sharp and too easily misunderstood. “It’s…you…probably won’t agree.”

Jaskier quirks a brow. “What do you mean by that?”

“I don’t think you’re thinking like I am,” Geralt answers. “About this. Specifically.”

“What is it, Geralt? If you can’t find the words, maybe it’ll help to tell me what you think we need to go over again.”

“…you’re right.” Geralt nods and fights the urge to fidget. “Just before I ran. When I shoved you.”

Jaskier nods. “We did talk about it,” he says. “I’ve forgiven you for it, too, Geralt, you know that.”

“I know,” he shifts his leg back and forth for a moment, suddenly unable to contain the nervous energy any longer, “I know you have, but….”

This pause goes on longer, Jaskier looking at him plainly, no expectation or judgement in his eyes. Geralt coughs, words caught in his throat, even though he can hear them echoing in his head.  _ I haven’t,  _ he thinks,  _ I haven’t forgiven myself, I  _ haven’t,  _ and how could I, when this is just  _ words?

He takes a deep breath to keep the rage-tinged panic from rising in his chest, and squeezes his eyes shut. Less sensory input helps, it always helps. Jaskier shifts, but doesn’t say anything, and nothing else changes. Geralt counts his breaths.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “It’s…difficult. And I’m…afraid. That you’ll be angry with me.”

“I won’t, Geralt,” Jaskier says earnestly. “I swear it.”

Geralt bites back against a hysterical snort, swallowing hard. “I know you’ve forgiven me, Jaskier,” he murmurs, barely more than breath. “But I…I  _ can’t.  _ Not without more. Something more than just words.”

When he looks at Jaskier again, the bard is chewing his lip, and he looks – unsure. A little…dismayed, as if Geralt has said something insulting.

Then again, he supposes he  _ has. _ Jaskier is a poet; words are the be-all-end-all of Jaskier’s livelihood, the way he expresses himself the most. His greatest and most treasured talent is how to use his words.

“ _ Fuck, _ ” Geralt mutters, dragging a hand over his face almost violently. “Fuck, Jaskier, I didn’t mean – ”

“Hush,” Jaskier says, and there’s something off in his voice, something  _ wrong, _ and when Geralt looks up, his expression is sour. “I know that you and I disagree on the importance of words, it’s not  _ news. _ And it’s fine.”

“You – ”

“I’m not angry with you, Geralt,” Jaskier interrupts. “I’m angry with myself.”

Geralt frowns. “Why?”

“Because.” Jaskier rolls his eyes and gives a dramatic gesture with his hands thrown in the air. “I should have anticipated this. I  _ know _ you struggle with words. You’re a man of action, Geralt, it’s not a secret.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and Jaskier opens his mouth to argue again, but Geralt continues firmly, “ _ Jaskier. _ We talked about that, too, didn’t we?”

Jaskier’s mouth closes with an audible click of his teeth, and he frowns, almost more of a pout. “…we did.”

“Exactly.” Geralt takes a steadying breath.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says, miserably, definitely overdramatic. Geralt doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a near thing. The affected hysterics are annoying, of course, they always are, but there’s a bigger part of Geralt that’s  _ relieved.  _ Jaskier hasn’t been like this, not since Geralt arrived – and from what Lambert and Eskel and Vesemir have said, it’s been longer than that. Seeing him return to himself, even if it’s to the more irritating traits, is good. “Gods. Okay. You don’t think the words were enough for that. What do you propose?”

Geralt starts to shift his leg again, boot making a soft scraping noise on the stone floor. “I want…,” he pauses to swallow back the sudden urge to deflect, to declare that he’s changed his mind. “Well. I hurt you.”

“Yes.”

“I think you should hurt me in return.”

Like ripping off a stuck bandage, painful but less so if it’s done quickly, even if sometimes it makes the wound bleed again. From the way Jaskier’s eyes widen and horror dawns on his face, Geralt chose the wrong method.

“ _ Geralt, _ ” Jaskier gasps. “No. No, absolutely not. I won’t – ”

He stops, paling a little, and swallows hard. His eyes, still wide, look haunted. “No,” he repeats. “I can’t…. Something else. Anything else.”

Geralt swallows, too, feeling caught and guilty and – ashamed, too. Embarrassed, because suddenly he’s sure that it’s a failing of  _ his _ that is making Jaskier like this, that it’s his fault that has made Jaskier refuse him.

“I don’t – ” his breath hitches and Jaskier’s eyes snap to his. “I can’t. Think of anything else.”

Jaskier makes a soft sound and his eyes squeeze shut. Geralt sees his fists are clenched, too, his whole body a line of tension, though his breathing is steady. Slow. He’s counting it, Geralt suddenly realizes. Calming himself down.

Geralt bites back all of the words that want to spill out of him – good time for those to show up,  _ fuck _ – and just waits.

Slowly, the tension leaks out of Jaskier’s body, and then he opens his eyes. “Okay,” he says, more like he’s speaking to himself than Geralt. “Okay.”

“Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice is timid. Jaskier looks at him, and his eyes are still a little wide, still a little haunted, but he looks less terrified now, color returning to his face.

“Sorry,” Jaskier says. “I just – that was…. Don’t worry about it right now.”

“…are you sure?”

Jaskier nods, a little forcefully. “Yeah,” he says, and takes a deep breath. “Alright. I – okay. Can you…explain it to me?”

“Explain it?” Geralt doesn’t really mean it to be a question, but his voice goes high at the end all the same. Jaskier huffs.

“Explain,” he says, slowly, like he’s being very careful in choosing his words, “why you think you need to be…hurt. To make up for hurting me. I understand the concept of  _ an eye for an eye,  _ but that’s not – that’s not good enough. Not for me.”

Geralt bites at his cheek for a moment, unsure. “I….” He shakes his head, dispelling the thought that he was going to speak; not good enough. He thinks for a moment, and Jaskier lets him, eyes sharp and focused on Geralt’s face but otherwise relaxed. Undemanding.

“It’s…. My whole life has been a series of negative reinforcement.” He hates the way his voice wavers when he says it, but Jaskier doesn’t point it out or prod for more, so he swallows the shame and continues. “If I make a mistake, there is an immediate and painful consequence. A wound from a monster, being stoned from a village. Always, there is a direct, physical result. I suppose…I don’t know how to feel like the process is over without it. How to…see something as paid for, as forgiven or forgotten or – finished, at least.”

Jaskier nods, but he’s quiet for a moment. When he finally speaks, Geralt feels as if he’s been stabbed, a deep, stinging pain somewhere in his gut.

“Do you think I  _ want _ to hurt you?”

“ _ No, _ ” Geralt says, immediately, and it’s broken, feels as if it’s been yanked out of him by a vicious hook. “ _ No, _ Jaskier, I don’t.”

“Okay. That – that makes it better, actually. Thank you.”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say to that, so he decides not to speak at all.

Jaskier takes another deep breath. “You need…something to convince you that your debt to me has been paid,” he says, and when he looks up, there’s so much pain in his eyes Geralt nearly flinches.

“Yes,” he agrees. As usual, Jaskier has managed to take his rambling and make it into something simple, something that makes perfect sense.

“Does it need to – do you want….” Jaskier stops, face screwing up for a second. “You said – when you make a mistake on the Path, there’s pain. Monsters and people both. Those – the claws and bites and the stones. They’ve scarred you.”

Geralt nods.

“Do you want me to  _ scar  _ you?” Jaskier looks sick again, green around the edges.

“No,” Geralt says, immediately, even though it’s not exactly the truth. He wants to have proof of some kind that this happened, but it doesn’t have to be  _ permanent.  _ Even as much as he would like it to be, something he can look back on always. He won’t do that to Jaskier. “Just – something that will stick, for at least a few days.”

Jaskier nods and breathes for a moment, until he’s looking less ill. “Oh – okay. That’s. I…. Okay.”

“…okay?” Geralt asks, after a beat, unsure if it's an agreement to do what he wants –  _ needs,  _ though he isn’t sure he wants to really admit that, not with that word – or just acquiescence to the idea itself.

“I…can I have a few days?” Jaskier asks, near desperate. “Just to – to think about it. To consider what I could do. A few days. Please?”

“ _ Yes,  _ of course,” Geralt agrees readily. Gods, the idea that Jaskier thinks he wouldn’t accept his need to think about it – he fights a shudder. “Yes. A few days.”

Jaskier lets out a relieved breath. “Thank you,” he says. “I’ll tell you. When I’ve decided.”

Geralt nods, and there’s not much more to say, so he ignores the awkward feeling in his chest and stands. “Thank you,” he says, sincerely. “I – ”

Jaskier smiles, and it’s soft and so full of love Geralt feels that squeezing in his chest all over again. “Of course, Geralt. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Jaskier.” Neither of them acknowledge the way his voice breaks.

* * *

The next handful of days pass slowly. Geralt is still keeping himself apart from the others, aside from at meals, and they’re letting him do it.

He still feels raw, and sensitive, and with the sort of stasis with Jaskier, he doesn’t feel like everything has been settled right. Without doing that, he doesn’t feel as if he should rejoin normal life in the keep. So he doesn’t, and his family is amazingly accommodating about it.

It’s probably because of Ciri, he knows. With her there, still trying to adjust to having her whole life ripped up and relocated, everyone else – even Jaskier – is busy with her. Geralt, so unsteady in himself, doesn’t want to try and get to know her yet. Not until he feels like he’s fixed things with Jaskier, because – well.

Jaskier and Yennefer’s voices once more echo in his head. She’s not just his daughter, she’s theirs, too, in a way.  _ Ours. _

So, in place of his usual routines when at Kaer Morhen, he finds new things to take up his time. First it’s cleaning up and organizing the armory; next it’s running his own training drills, away from the others; after that, he starts cataloging the paintings and tapestries that survived the sacking. It isn’t until the third day after his discussion with Jaskier, when he’s standing in a random unused room and trying to find something,  _ anything, _ to do that will keep him on the periphery, when someone finally confronts him.

Vesemir, of course, because Eskel and Lambert have already done their pieces.

“You look like a lost pup,” Vesemir announces, and Geralt flinches, raising a cloud of dust when he spins around to face the elder Witcher.

Geralt opens his mouth to retort, but finds that he doesn’t have anything to say. “Hm.”

Vesemir snorts. “C’mere, boy.”

Geralt obeys almost without thinking, stepping closer until Vesemir can snag him around the back of his neck. It’s as easy as breathing to stoop just a little and press his forehead to Vesemir’s, to bring his own hand up. His eyes close, suddenly settled and comfortable where he’d been anxious.

It’s an automatic response. For all the rough edges they all have, they’re – at this point – a family, and Vesemir is for all intents and purposes their father, now. The only elder they have, and one that has always cared for them fiercely. Even when he was discouraged from doing so by his fellow Witchers. Geralt remembers overhearing heated conversation he was never meant to be privy to, fire in Vesemir’s voice that’s still hard to coax out even today,  _ I refuse to stop loving those boys, no matter what your opinions are on it. _

“I’m proud of you, Geralt,” Vesemir says softly. “I know I don’t tell you that often enough, but it’s true nonetheless.”

“Vesemir – ”

“Hush,” Vesemir says, and it’s an order, but there’s a smile in his voice. It’s contagious, and even though Geralt doesn’t open his eyes he finds himself smiling, too. “Jaskier looks much better. You’ve done right by him, clearly.”

“I’m trying,” Geralt murmurs.

“I can tell. Now there’s just one piece left, pup.”

Geralt swallows, smile fading. “I know,” he breathes. “Cirilla.”

“Exactly.”

“I will,” he says. “I’ll – just give me some more time. Please.”

Vesemir is quiet, but he squeezes where he’s holding Geralt’s neck and then steps back. When Geralt opens his eyes, Vesemir’s face is serious, but there’s something gentle in his gaze.

“Of course,” he finally says. “Now, dinner is soon. Stop moping around in the old rooms.”

Geralt ducks his head, a little sheepish, but nods. “Alright,” he agrees.

Vesemir makes a quiet, amused sound, and then he’s gone. Geralt looks around the bare room one more time, finding nothing more in it to distract him than he saw before, and follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand putting this here as well, in case anyone didn't read the beginning notes: hi, the continued comments about "punishing" geralt or "making him suffer" make me _super_ uncomfortable. the number of them did drop significantly after my note about the post i'll be making (thank you for that!), but i still got a few, and i just want y'all to know i _really_ do not want to see any more. again, if you feel like he hasn't paid properly for what he's done, i'm sorry - i'll be addressing any questions you want to ask in that future post, as well as a lot of different little things regarding this. but please do not continue to tell me how much you wish he'd suffer more. thanks!
> 
> i love you all :D


	16. chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jaskier allows himself a proper twelve hours to have a fucking meltdown about what he and Geralt discussed. ___
> 
> __A discussion with Vesemir, and an idea._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woohoo, i almost forgot it was sunday. and, related to that - i'm moving! and possibly getting a job. which is to say, i may have to slow posting down to once a week instead of twice, at least for a little bit while i settle in to things. i'm not sure yet if it'll be wednesdays or sundays that i post, if i slow down to once a week, but i will be posting this upcoming wednesday still. i'll make another note as soon as i decide!

Jaskier allows himself a proper twelve hours to have a fucking meltdown about what he and Geralt discussed, and then he pulls himself together and gets over it.

Or, well. He doesn’t get over it. He continues to think about it, in detail and also still mildly panicked, for several days.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do. Geralt  _ needs  _ this, that much is crystal clear; Jaskier can’t outright say no, not in the face of that. Especially not when Geralt actually  _ asked,  _ came to him and used his words. But he’s not terribly convinced of his ability to do something like this.

Hurting Geralt isn’t on the list of things he actually enjoys.

Of course, there’s  _ exceptions.  _ Geralt likes his hair pulled, and sometimes gets into a mood where he needs to be slapped around like Lambert does, though that’s decently rare. They’ve played around with roughness in bed, and Jaskier knows full well how much Geralt can take. Also, they’re hardly gentle with each other even outside of bed – they’re both grown men, and while Geralt has mutations on his side, Jaskier is pretty sturdy; they roughhouse like schoolboys more than they probably should.

But all of that is very different from what Geralt wants, what he needs, because what he asked for is, essentially,  _ punishment.  _ And even though Geralt said it doesn’t have to be permanent, he knows that the Witcher would prefer it was. Jaskier isn’t sure he can handle that, if he’s totally honest.

There are memories attached to physical punishment that he’d rather not dig up.

Two days after their discussion, approaching three rapidly, Jaskier decides he can’t do this by himself. He needs help, to understand what Geralt needs and how to do it. And while he thinks Eskel or Lambert might have some insight, he knows that they’re not the most knowledgeable.

No, that would be Vesemir, the father figure that was never supposed to be one. Jaskier has no idea how to bring this up, not really, but he has to try.

Luckily for him, Vesemir is old and wise and very, very patient. Also, at this point, he knows Jaskier just as well as he knows the rest of his  _ pups. _

(And even as off-kilter as Jaskier is, knowing that Vesemir considers  _ him  _ a pup, too, warms him straight through.)

* * *

He finds Vesemir in the library, nose buried in a book. Jaskier leans against a table nearby and waits for the elder Witcher to acknowledge his presence, taking the moment to really look at him.

Vesemir is old, Jaskier knows. More than a century, possibly more than two – none of the others know, exactly, and Jaskier’s not sure if it’s because they’ve never asked or because Vesemir has never said. And he  _ looks _ old, but definitely not the way a human does. If Jaskier were pressed to give an age to Vesemir, based on human lifespans, he’d guess around seventy at the absolute youngest. The elder Witcher’s eyes are sunken with age, heavy bags showing years of restless sleep and a hard lifestyle, and his face is loose and wrinkled; his hair is gray because of time (compared to Geralt’s, white from the mutations), and he’s clearly lost some, the basic pattern of baldness showing in the peak of his hairline.

Despite the appearance of age, though, Jaskier knows well that Vesemir is hardly slowing down. He can still lift just as much as the others, can still hold his own in a fight against them during training, and Jaskier knows he still goes on the occasional contract nearby. He’s got little aches and pains and complaints, but nothing one wouldn’t expect from a man who has had multiple gaping wounds and broken bones over his long lifetime.

“Are you here for a reason, bard, or are you just going to study me for the rest of the morning?”

Jaskier startles a little bit, and when Vesemir looks up from his book, his eyes are sparkling and he’s smiling, though it’s small.

“I am here for a reason,” Jaskier says. “Just…didn’t want to disturb you.”

Vesemir rolls his eyes and closes his book, leaning back into the chair he’s pulled over to the table. “What can I help you with, then?”

“Well.” Jaskier fidgets a little, looks away for a moment before he looks back. Vesemir quirks a brow. “I just…. I wanted to ask….”

“Spit it out, pup.”

Jaskier pushes a hand through his hair. “It’s about Geralt,” he murmurs. “I – he asked something of me, and I’m not sure…. I was hoping you might have. Insight. Or advice.”

Vesemir quirks a brow. “Alright,” he nods. “Come on, come over here and sit, then.” He gestures to the chair opposite him at the table. Jaskier goes.

“What is it, then?” Vesemir asks, looking steadily at Jaskier. It’s the same neutral, calm expression he almost always wears, but his eyes are warm, concern showing in the myriad lines near his mouth. Jaskier considers how rarely he’s ever been looked at like this – like a parent looking at a child – and his chest aches. He takes a deep breath.

“It’s about when he shoved me,” he says, gesturing to his back. Vesemir knows well what happened; after all, he was the one to clean Jaskier up. He’s the only one who has seen exactly what those scratches looked like. “He feels guilty about it. Still. We’ve talked about it, but….”

Vesemir hums his understanding. “He doesn’t feel like it’s been put right,” he says. He leans back in his chair again with a sigh. “I suppose that would probably be our fault, then.”

“Our?”

Vesemir waves a hand. “Witchers,” he says. “The other instructors and me, when the school was functioning.”

“Oh.”

“We didn’t use corporal punishment very often,” Vesemir says. “Wasn’t much worth in beating a boy, not when we could just give him extra training drills or the less desirable chores. We could punish them for misbehavior and keep them up to shape with their training, or make sure the maintenance work got done.”

“But that would still cause pain,” Jaskier finishes. Vesemir nods with another sigh.

“It did,” he agrees. “The drills were hard because they had to be. If the drills got too easy, we gave them new drills. And you may not have ever done any of it, but you’re of noble birth – keeping an estate running, especially a castle full of mutants, it’s not easy work. It’s not easy  _ now, _ and all we’re doing is making sure it doesn’t fall down around our ears.”

Jaskier nods. “…you said you didn’t use corporal punishment  _ often _ .”

“I did.” Vesemir looks away from him for the first time, eyes drifting along the shelves to Jaskier’s back, the high ceiling. “We did use it. Usually for repeated misbehavior, things that kept happening despite the drills and chores. Or, sometimes, for specific infractions.”

“Like what?”

“Depended on the instructor, and what was happening,” Vesemir shrugs. “I belted Geralt and Eskel for capturing a bumblebee on a string and watching it struggle.”

Jaskier frowns. “Seems…a little excessive, if I’m honest.”

Vesemir shrugs again. “It may have been,” he says. “But I saw them watching this little bug struggle, laughing about the way it was panicking, and couldn’t stand by knowing they thought that kind of behavior was acceptable. It was just a bug then. I had to think about what it could be if no one ever told them it was wrong.”

Jaskier’s stomach drops to his feet. “ _ Oh. _ ” He can see the logic, of course he can; he’s met his own fair share of disgusting, vile people who probably wouldn’t be that way if any single person had discouraged the behavior. He’s also seen plenty of boys who engaged in violent ‘play’ as children that turned to abusing animals and wives when they aged.

“I have no illusions that our methods were perfect,” Vesemir says. “But it was what we had, and what we could see worked.”

“No, of course,” Jaskier shakes his head. “I don’t – I understand. It’s not as I’m…judging you, or the others, for doing the job you had to do. It’s just….”

“Hard to stomach,” Vesemir says. “I know. It’s something I’ve slept with for more than a century, now, boy. If someone can hit a child, or put them through what Witchers go through, and not feel some sort of shame about it – well, then they’re as much a monster as the things Witchers are paid to kill.”

“…not a very neutral stance,” Jaskier points out, though there’s the lilt of teasing in his voice.

Vesemir snorts. “You’ve been following Geralt around for twenty years, Jaskier. Tell me, how neutral is he in times of strife?”

Jaskier laughs. He doesn’t need to answer that question, because they both  _ know.  _ Geralt wants so badly to stay neutral, to follow his code – but he’s too good, can never make himself stand to the side and let people die or get hurt unnecessarily. They’re all like that, really. Geralt’s mostly just unlucky.

He sobers a bit as he thinks back to why they’re having this discussion, though. “What can  _ I  _ do, though?” he asks. “The punishments are tied in with pain, and that’s – he said he doesn’t think he can reconcile it, consider it over, unless there is pain. An eye for an eye, more or less, though it’s clearly deeper than just that. And he says it doesn’t have to be permanent, but I know that’s not the truth – at least, not all of it. He wants it to be permanent. Like the scars or the ways that training changed him.”

Vesemir rubs a hand over his face. “I’m not sure I can help you there,” he says.

Jaskier sighs, nodding. “I know,” he says. “I’m just….”

“Is it that you don’t want to do it?”

“I…yes and no.” Jaskier squirms a little, uncomfortable and pinned by the searching look in Vesemir’s eyes. “It’s…I have reservations about the concept of  _ punishment. _ ”

“From your own childhood, I would assume.” Vesemir says it so calmly, a mere statement of fact, and still Jaskier’s breath rushes out of him.

He doesn’t talk about his childhood or his home. He just doesn’t. There are bits and pieces, here and there, of course – he talks too damn much to keep a total lock on it. But it’s all superficial. He was educated at a temple school, had literacy beaten into him there, and then went on to Oxenfurt. He’s of noble birth, but nothing ostentatious enough to matter, not really. He doesn’t tell people about his family, where he was born. And no one  _ asks,  _ which is slightly more important actually, because if his Witchers asked, he would tell them.

“Yeah,” he manages. Vesemir gives him a certain look, one that would look like pity if it were anyone else.

“But you’re willing to try, because he’s asking.”

Jaskier nods. “That’s it exactly. It’s not – he actually  _ asked.  _ Came to me himself and said it with hardly any prodding, and – it’s  _ improvement. _ ”

“Sometimes you can teach an old dog new tricks,” Vesemir says with a little smirk, and Jaskier huffs.

“He’s learned quite a few by now.”

Vesemir hums and seems to consider for a moment. “I don’t know,” he says, finally. “I can’t think of anything to suggest. Unfortunately, I think you may have to figure this out on your own.”

Jaskier sighs. “Yeah. I was worried about that. Thank you, though, for talking over it with me.”

Vesemir quirks a brow. “Of course,” he says. “No reason I wouldn’t. I’d do the same for any of them, and you’re as much my son as they are.”

Jaskier resists the urge to launch himself across the table to hug the elder Witcher, but only barely.

* * *

It isn’t until Jaskier is digging through his packs, looking for an old inkpot so he can use it to make new ink, that he comes up with an idea.

He doesn’t find the inkpot. But he does find the handful of needles and jewelry that Vi sent with him when he left Ard Carraigh with Vesemir. He rolls them around in his palm, reaching up with his other hand to fiddle with the little studs in his own ears. Once they’d healed, rather quickly all things considered, he’s mostly forgotten about them.

Now he looks down at the needles, and the various pieces of jewelry, and thinks he’s found his solution.

Piercings can be permanent, and it hurts to get them.

It’s a mark that can last, one that can do what Geralt needs it to do – and it’s a mark Jaskier can leave without feeling sick to his stomach. He twists the studs in his ear and considers the jewelry Vi gave him.

He’ll have to discuss it with Geralt, of course, see if this is something  _ Geralt _ wants, or considers  _ enough.  _ But it’s a solution where there wasn’t one, now, and Jaskier feels confident that it’ll work. That Geralt will agree, and they can get past this.

The needles and the jewelry go in a little ornate box Lambert gave him. He sets the box next to his bed, wipes oddly damp hands on his pants, and considers the angle of the sun. If nothing else, they can discuss it tonight, after dinner.

Jaskier finds himself…almost excited at the prospect. He pushes it aside to examine later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some of you guessed jaskier's solution correctly :D 
> 
> next chapter includes porn, as well - for anyone who doesn't want to read it, i'll be making a note on what you _need_ to know in the beginning notes of it, and then you can skip entirely.
> 
> love you all 💜


	17. chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Where did you even learn to do something like that?”_
> 
> Jaskier and Geralt finally settle the last of their problems together, and have some fun for the first time this winter.
> 
> (Even if you're skipping this chapter, please read this beginning notes!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiiiiiii hello I am a day late and much more than a dollar short, I forgot yesterday was Wednesday and I'm posting this on my _phone_ so obviously everything is a mess
> 
> I am definitely going to have to switch to posting once a week, effective immediately! Next chapter will be posted next Wednesday. I hope to be able to switch back to twice a week before it's over, but I can't make any promises. Thank you all so much for your understanding and encouragement in the comments!!!
> 
> FOR ANYONE SKIPPING THIS CHAPTER: Jaskier gives Geralt several piercings to appease Geralt's need for "punishment", and they both finally consider the drama and hurt between the two of them over and done with.

“Where did you even learn to  _ do  _ something like that?”

Geralt looks completely stunned, staring at the needles and jewelry Jaskier has laid out on a tray he stole from the kitchen and cleaned thoroughly.

“There’s a healer in Ard Carraigh,” Jaskier explains. “I was there for – nearly a month, I think, I wasn’t keeping much track. I helped her with her medicines and salves, and she taught me this in return.” He tugs at his earlobe. “Didn’t you notice these?”

Geralt huffs. “Of course I noticed them, but – I didn’t think you’d have learned how to do it yourself.”

Jaskier shrugs. “I had time,” he says. “And I needed something to do to distract me when I wasn’t performing.”

“I suppose it makes sense,” Geralt nods. “And this is your suggestion for hurting me in return?”

Jaskier flinches at the nonchalant way he says that, but doesn’t mention it. “Yes.” He gestures to the needles. “Even with your pain tolerance, a body piercing will hurt, and as much as you say it doesn’t need to be permanent, I can read between your lines, Geralt.”

Geralt looks a little caught, at that, eyes widening. “Well,” he mumbles. Jaskier just shakes his head and pulls the tray closer to him to look over the needles, mostly for something to do with his hands.

“You can say no,” he says. “And we can figure something else out. But this – it works for  _ me.  _ It doesn’t – I can do this to you.”

“So it won’t bother you to pierce me?”

Jaskier shakes his head again. “No. It’s pain, yes, but it’s – it doesn’t  _ have _ to be permanent. The jewelry can be taken out and the hole left by the needle will heal. In fact, with your healing, if the jewelry is left out I imagine it would be sealed within a day or less.”

A considering hum. “Well,” Geralt says, slowly. “What – there’s…different kinds, right? Of piercings. Different places, different ways to pierce them.”

“There is. Vi taught me a lot of them.” Jaskier sees her little hand-drawn chart in his head, little anatomy sketches with overexaggerated jewelry in place. “Is – you can decide, of course, what I do. Where I pierce.”

Geralt’s brow scrunches. “No,” he says. “No, I – I would rather you chose.”

“Oh.” Jaskier considers that for a moment. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. This is…an exchange. To me, at least. I want you to decide where.”

Jaskier swallows down the lump that rises in his throat at that, not entirely sure what emotion is roiling in his chest. “Alright,” he says. “That’s – I can do that.”

Geralt looks to the door. “Tonight? Or – ”

“Give me a day to prepare,” Jaskier says, and this, at least, is easy. He knows what he needs, and where he can get it. “Where would you rather we do it?”

“I – ” Geralt blinks. “…my bedroom?” Jaskier can see it wasn’t meant to be a question by the frown that follows immediately after.

He nods. “That’s fine. You’ll need to be well-rested and well-fed, as well, and clean.”

“Okay. That’s – I can do that.”

Jaskier smiles at him, though he’s not quite sure it reaches his eyes. His stomach is filled with anxiety and love and a myriad other unnamed, squirming feelings he can’t pin down and examine right now. “Thank you.”

* * *

Everyone gives him a wide berth as he moves around the castle the next day. It’s half necessary, as he gathers things he needs or thinks he might need, and half just frantic movement. He’s nervous. Not nervous enough to call this off, or even nervous about the piercing itself – he’s just…nervous.

Maybe this won’t work. Maybe it will, but Jaskier will still feel unsure about it.

He doesn’t know, and it’s setting him on edge. So he tries not to think about it, and instead makes sure he has everything he needs. The needles and jewelry are easy, and so are clean rags and hot water. But there are things that he has to make, and things he needs to substitute. Things that he needs to have for his own sanity, if not for the process itself.

Alcohol – not White Gull, though he supposes it would work in an emergency – and some sort of cleaning solution that isn’t whatever Lambert had tried to hand him this morning when he asked. It had smelled too much like one of the potions Witchers take into battle for Jaskier’s comfort.

Though he does take the bottle of Swallow that Eskel offers him. That’s one of the things that’s more for his sanity than the process of piercing, though.

Once he has everything else gathered and made, he sets to making ink. Exactly like he’d planned when he found the needles, though this is a vastly different kind of ink. This particular ink is something Vi taught him to make; it won’t cause harm if it somehow ends up in the bloodstream. While he’s certain that Geralt could handle even normal ink in his veins, or one of his potions could, Jaskier would rather just not have to think about it.

And then, with the ink finished, he’s left with his thoughts.

It’s not exactly a good place for him to be, not right now, so he goes down to dinner, and pretends to ignore the concerned looks everyone is giving him. He knows he looks frazzled, but that’s just going to have to be what it is for right now.

* * *

“Are you really sure you can do this?” Geralt asks. His voice is soft, and he looks genuinely concerned.

Jaskier sighs and stops fiddling with the rag in his hands, turning to set it with the others. “Yes,” he says. “I’m just – it’s rather stupid, really.”

“What is?”

“I’m just afraid – that it might not work. For you. Or me, or that – that you’ll hate it. The piercings, I mean. Which is, frankly, foolish, and I know that.”

“It is.”

Jaskier laughs lightly and rolls his eyes. “Glad to know you agree, I suppose.”

He looks over and sees that Geralt looks just as tense as he feels. He studies him for a moment and then sighs. “Give me a minute,” he says, and ducks out of the room to jog to his. He hadn’t really considered that they’d both be so cagey, but now that he’s thinking about it, it makes perfect sense. He’s an idiot.

When he returns, Geralt doesn’t look any more relaxed. In fact, he looks more tense, and Jaskier sighs again.

“Strip and lay down on your stomach, please.”

Geralt’s eyes go wide and Jaskier smirks at him. “What?” he asks, trying to sound more casual than he feels. “It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before. Probably seen you naked more than I’ve seen you clothed, at this point.”

That, at least, makes Geralt roll his eyes with a little smile. And he starts pulling his clothes off, piling them at the end of his bed out of the way. “Not sure what you can pierce if I’m on my stomach.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes right back. “No point in doing the piercing if you’re going to be tense. Could fuck it up. I’m giving you a massage, Geralt.”

“Ah.”

Jaskier snorts a little and busies himself with making sure everything is within easy reach of the bed. He’s trying his best not to stare because – well. Because he’s just as unsure as Geralt, really, affected confidence and gentle teasing aside.

He does see, though, that Geralt doesn’t look nearly as thin and defined as he had, and that settles something inside him. He waits until he can tell Geralt has laid down and gotten comfortable before he abandons his tools and goes over to the bed. It’s both the same and so vastly different than all of the times he’s done this before – numerous enough he doesn’t think he could even begin to estimate the number.

Jaskier shakes himself out of his musing and knees up onto the bed, touching Geralt’s hip gently to warn him before he swings a leg over and straddles the Witcher’s thighs. He doesn’t miss the way Geralt shivers, but doesn’t call attention to it. For a moment, he has a sort of déjà vu moment, mind snapping back to the first time he ever gave Geralt a massage.

Back then, it was just like this; Geralt naked, Jaskier completely clothed, though the Geralt of then had been covered in purpling bruises and as tense as a rock troll. The Geralt of now is blessedly unmarked and significantly more relaxed, though there’s certainly a tenseness in his shoulders that hasn’t been present for several years. Jaskier ignores the way it makes his stomach twist and pours some oil onto his hand to warm.

He can be thankful, at least, that this is usually quiet. At first it was because he was too consumed with trying to control his lust, and after that it was because Geralt was usually too overloaded to handle touch and sound both. As time progressed it just…stayed that way. A sort of bubble of peace for both of them.

Maybe it’s not exactly  _ peace _ right now, with the strange energy between them, but it’s familiar all the same.

Once the oil is warm, Jaskier lets it spill from his cupped palm onto the middle of Geralt’s back. For a moment he just moves the oil around, until it’s not threatening to drip off his sides onto the bed anymore, and then he starts a proper massage.

Geralt makes a soft noise, clearly choked back, and Jaskier smiles.

“It’s okay, you know,” he murmurs. “I’ve always liked it more when you make noise.”

Geralt mutters something Jaskier doesn’t catch.

“What was that?” He digs intentionally into a particularly large knot, and Geralt yelps, then growls a little when Jaskier snickers.

“I said,” Geralt mumbles, turning his head so he’s not muffled by his arms, “I’m mostly trying not to get hard.”

Jaskier’s stomach swoops and he  _ giggles,  _ stupid and high. At least Geralt can’t see how his face flushes right now. “Suppose I’m not helping, then,” he murmurs when the giggles subside.

Geralt makes a sound that Jaskier can accurately interpret as a verbal eyeroll, and they fall back into silence. The next time Jaskier hits a nice spot, Geralt doesn’t bother to choke down the noise he makes, and Jaskier grins down at his hands.

He works methodically down Geralt’s back, from shoulders to hips, and then back up, until Geralt has gone mostly quiet except for soft breaths with each push. The Witcher has more or less melted into the bed by now, and if Jaskier didn’t know better, he’d think Geralt was asleep.

But he knows what Geralt looks and feels like asleep, and he’s not. He’s just very relaxed. Jaskier allows himself one more gentle pass over his back and then climbs off the bed. He walks over to one of the basins of water he brought in and washes his hands as thoroughly as he can, hearing Geralt grunt and start to shift around behind him.

“Have you decided?” he asks softly. “About the piercings.”

Jaskier finishes washing his hands and grabs a clean rag to dry them with. “Yeah.” Geralt is sitting up in the bed, legs crossed when he looks back to the bed. He nods to the little tray that only has a few needles and pieces of jewelry on it. “You can tell me if you don’t like one, obviously,” he continues. From the basin, he goes to get his ink and a little brush, as well as a candle for some extra light. It’s fairly bright in the room, but he’d rather be overly cautious than make a stupid mistake. 

“Sit up with your legs off the bed, please.”

Geralt obeys immediately, shifting until his feet are flat on the ground. His back is almost unnaturally straight, as well, and Jaskier rolls his eyes to himself but doesn’t bother telling him to relax. Instead, he makes sure the ink is mixed properly and then takes everything over to the bed, setting it all on the nightstand in easy reach.

“What is this?” Geralt asks.

“Ink,” Jaskier explains. “I’m going to mark where to pierce so I can do it easier. And make sure it’s even before I do it.”

“Huh. Seems…professional.”

Jaskier laughs. “What, did you think everyone who got piercings just shoved a sharp object through their skin without regard or planning?”

Geralt shrugs one shoulder, but he looks a little embarrassed. Jaskier just shakes his head.

He dips the brush in the ink and then lifts the candle so he can see as clearly as possible. Geralt holds very still (Jaskier’s pretty sure he’s holding his breath, actually, and barely resists yet another eye roll) while Jaskier carefully puts a little dot on each earlobe. Once they’re on, he puts the brush to the side and stands back a little to check if they look even.

“They look even to me,” he murmurs. “But you’ve got better eyes than I do.” He sets the candle down and goes over to the washbasin, grabbing the little mirror that sits there. Geralt takes it easily and inspects the little bits of ink on his ears.

“Fine,” he says.

“Good.” Jaskier sets the mirror aside, then grabs the brush and dips it into the ink again. Geralt makes a short, startled sound when Jaskier kneels in front of him, but otherwise doesn’t react, stock-still and back ramrod straight.

Jaskier ignores it and grabs the candle, leaning in so he can mark two little spots on Geralt’s belly button. Geralt sucks in a breath, but there’s only the slightest tremor of his chest, nothing to disturb his stomach.

“Alright,” Jaskier murmurs. “This one – you can say no. You can say no to any of them, obviously, but this one specifically.”

“What?” Geralt’s eyes are a little wide, pupils slightly too dilated for the amount of light in the room. Jaskier bites down on the tease that wants to spill from him, and sets his candle aside once more to rest a hand on Geralt’s thigh, fingers perilously close to his soft cock.

Geralt makes a strange sort of squeaking noise. “Oh.”

Jaskier doesn’t really know how to explain his reasoning. Or, well, he knows, but it’s rather embarrassing if he gets into it, so he’d rather  _ not.  _ He looks up into Geralt’s wide eyes and strokes his thumb over the coarse hair on his thigh. For a moment they just look at one another, and then Geralt swallows audibly and nods.

“It’s fine,” he says. His voice is quiet but there’s no hesitation in it. Jaskier smiles.

“Alright.”

He turns and dips the brush in the ink again, then grabs the candle. “Can you hold this?”

Geralt takes the holder easily and holds it exactly where Jaskier had it.

“Thank you.” Jaskier settles a little more comfortably on his knees and leans forward so he can shift Geralt’s cock and see. Geralt sucks in a breath but doesn’t move, and Jaskier chuckles a little. “You can control your heart rate, Witcher. Don’t forget that.”

“Fuck you,” Geralt says, and his voice is a little strained but there’s humor there, too. Jaskier just grins wider and sets to making the marks. He graciously ignores the soft little sounds Geralt makes as he works.

Realistically, he should be trying to get Geralt hard to see where everything rests then.

But even more realistically, he knows exactly what that looks like. He can make an educated guess.

“There,” Jaskier says, after double-checking the way the marks move. Geralt’s gaze is somewhere between a squint and a glare, and Jaskier can’t help but chuckle as he grabs the candle and stands. He sets the candle and the brush as well as the ink to the side, pulling the tray with the needles and jewelry closer.

“Which are you doing first?” Geralt asks.

“I was going to do your ears first. Just move down,” Jaskier answers. “I can start wherever, though.”

Geralt shakes his head. “That’s fine,” he says. “Just…asking.”

Jaskier raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Yes.”

“Alright.” Jaskier shrugs. He goes back over to the wash basin to wash his hands again – better safe than sorry – and then comes back and picks up one of the needles. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

Jaskier takes him at his word. He makes sure his hands are steady and then, as quick as possible, punches the needle through Geralt’s first earlobe. The Witcher’s breathing shifts a little, but otherwise he doesn’t move.

“Okay?” Jaskier asks softly.

“Fine.”

“Good.” Jaskier grabs the jewelry he’d picked and carefully lines it up so he can push it in right after the needle pulls out, then secures it. The next ear goes the exact same way; a small breathing shift, confirmation of comfort, and then the jewelry is in place.

“Do I get to see the jewelry?” Geralt asks while Jaskier is fiddling with the needle he’ll use on the next piercing. Jaskier huffs and grabs the mirror nearby to hand it over. Geralt hums, a totally neutral sound, and then sets the mirror down.

“Encouraging,” Jaskier mutters, but before Geralt can say anything else, he’s on his knees and trying to line the needle up with his marks on the Witcher’s belly button. Geralt sucks in his stomach just a little before he clearly forces himself to let go of the tension. Jaskier smiles. “Good,” he praises. “Thank you.”

The needle goes through without much trouble, and only a small twitch in Geralt’s arm. Jaskier looks up at him and gets a curt nod, so he continues with the jewelry.

When Jaskier shifts to the side to gather the needle and jewelry for the last piercing, Geralt grabs the mirror again. He seems a little more interested in the jewelry on his belly, studying it for a bit longer with a more considering hum. Jaskier smiles.

“This one could bleed,” Jaskier warns. “Really, any piercing has the possibility of bleeding, but – ”

“It makes sense,” Geralt interrupts. “It’s fine. I don’t have a problem with blood, Jaskier.”

Jaskier snorts. “No, you wouldn’t,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Alright.”

This one takes a little longer, just because Jaskier is being very careful about not pushing the needle through until he’s absolutely certain. Geralt has gone remarkably tense, but Jaskier can’t focus on that. He takes a deep breath and Geralt does, too, and then the needle is pushed through and they both exhale; Jaskier in relief that it went through fine with only a tiny spot of blood, and Geralt in clear pain.

“Alright?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt makes a soft, choked noise, but mumbles, “Yes.”

Jaskier puts the jewelry in. Geralt’s fists unclench and his thighs relax, but he’s still frowning, teeth clenched. Jaskier reaches up and presses his thumb against the wrinkle in his brow, trying to smooth it out, and when Geralt’s eyes meet his, they're  _ wild. _

“Geralt?”

“ _ Jaskier. _ ”

He doesn’t get much more warning than the hand in his hair. Geralt uses a surprisingly gentle grip to pull him up, so their faces are level, and then they’re kissing. Jaskier gasps into it, but winds his arms around Geralt’s neck to hold on, careful of his ears and his belly as they shift closer.

The kiss drags on for long moments, soft and slick and  _ wonderful.  _ Jaskier’s heart is rabbiting in his chest, and Geralt’s is much faster than it should be, too. Geralt’s hand hasn’t left his hair, and each time they have to break apart to breathe, he growls softly before tugging Jaskier right back to his mouth.

“Fuck,” Jaskier hisses, head spinning, “ _ fuck,  _ Geralt.”

“Sorry,” Geralt pants, and Jaskier shakes his head, heedless of the way it bumps their noses together.

“No,” he murmurs. “No.” They kiss again, and again, and several more times.

Slowly, the kisses start to gentle. Geralt goes from holding his hair in a grip to petting through it, and Jaskier traces light fingertips over Geralt’s nape just to feel the way he shivers at it. At some point, their lips separate and don’t come back together. Jaskier presses his forehead to Geralt’s, a gesture of affection he knows Geralt will understand, and just breathes for a moment.

“Thank you,” Geralt murmurs, nose brushing across Jaskier’s as he shifts his head. “Thank you.”

“Thank  _ you, _ ” Jaskier murmurs right back.

* * *

Jaskier wakes half wrapped in sheets and half wrapped in Witcher. He gets a mouthful of Geralt’s hair when he tries to breathe in and coughs, turning his head toward the pillow and laughing when he catches his breath.

Geralt makes a low, rumbling sound, and presses a flurry of little kisses to Jaskier’s chest where his head is resting. Jaskier drags his arm out from the tangle of sheets so he can comb fingers through Geralt’s hair, part affection and part getting the strands out of his face.

“Morning,” he mumbles. He doesn’t remember losing his shirt before they went to bed, so he must have taken it off sometime in the night. His pants have mostly survived, just bunched oddly around his calves and hips. Geralt is still as naked as the day he was born, and showing about as much shame about that as he always has.

Which is to say, none. Jaskier grins to himself.

“Morning,” Geralt finally says back after a moment, untangling their limbs a little bit so he can list to the side and see Jaskier’s face. Jaskier keeps his hand in the Witcher’s hair, and brings the other up to rest on his shoulder. Geralt’s grip on his hip tightens a little.

“How does everything feel?”

Geralt shrugs the shoulder Jaskier’s holding. “Little sore,” he murmurs. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I’ve seen you call near catastrophic blood loss  _ nothing I can’t handle,  _ so that’s both believable and also means absolutely nothing.”

He presses a chaste kiss to Geralt’s temple and then pulls back, fighting out of the sheets so he can crawl out of the bed. “I’ve got a cleaning solution,” he explains as he crosses the room, adjusting his pants as he goes. “Normal suggestion is to clean the piercings once or twice a day until they heal, which for normal people takes a month or more. I’d imagine you’ll probably only need to do it for a handful of days, if that.”

“Wouldn’t have to do it at all with Swallow,” Geralt says, gesturing toward where he can clearly see the little bottle next to the rest of Jaskier’s things from the night before.

“That was in case of emergency,” Jaskier says. “And entirely for my own comfort. You don’t need to waste a potion for those unless something goes drastically wrong. And you’re not exactly prone to infection, anyway, so I’m not  _ actually _ worried.” He returns to the bed with the bottle of cleaning solution and a rag, and Geralt huffs disagreeably but sits up anyway.

“Just an overabundance of caution?” he asks.

Jaskier nods, perching on the bed next to him. He holds up the bottle and the rag. “You just need to wipe some of this around the jewelry,” he says. “Pretty simple, really.”

Geralt takes it from him and sets to cleaning the new piercings, hissing slightly with the one on his foreskin. Jaskier just goes about his usual morning routine, then lays back down on the bed while Geralt does the same. The Witcher still doesn’t get dressed, and Jaskier doesn’t bother to hide his ogling. When Geralt catches his stare, he quirks a brow in question, and Jaskier just shrugs and continues to look.

“Pretty sure I’m not supposed to be doing anything, hm,  _ strenuous, _ with this new piercing,” Geralt teases, gesturing to his cock.

Jaskier laughs, propping himself up on his elbows to give him a more proper once-over. “You’re right,” he says. “But who said  _ you’d _ be doing any of the work?”

“Oh?” That brow raises again and Jaskier chuckles.

“C’mere.”

Geralt climbs back onto the bed with easy grace, swinging a leg over so he’s straddling Jaskier’s waist. Jaskier reaches up and pushes a hand through his hair, watching the way Geralt’s pupils dilate slightly. He grins and pulls the Witcher down into a kiss, chaste and sweet at first.

At first.

Geralt’s hands come up to his shoulder and his neck, fingers pressing maybe slightly too hard, and he nips none too gently at Jaskier’s lip to get him to deepen the kiss. Jaskier indulges him, tugging lightly at his hair to change the angle and letting himself fall back onto the pillows. Geralt laughs into his mouth and follows.

They kiss for a long time, alternating between deep and messy, and light pecks. Jaskier keeps  _ giggling, _ and Geralt is smiling into each one of the kisses; he feels like he could fly right now. Whatever strange tension formed between them after their talk is gone, leaving Jaskier feeling more settled in his skin than he has in months.

“I love you,” Jaskier murmurs between kisses. Geralt makes a soft noise and sucks at his bottom lip, making Jaskier jolt with the pull.

“I love you too,” Geralt mumbles back, and then they’re kissing again.

It’s different, this time, the scant space between them feeling more charged. Jaskier shifts, slides one hand down Geralt’s chest, and feels the way his cock twitches between them. Geralt buries one hand into his hair and grips, not too hard, but enough to sting. Jaskier groans into his mouth, heat flooding his veins, and tugs lightly at Geralt’s hair in response.

“Fuck,” Geralt mutters, mouth sliding across Jaskier’s cheek to his jaw. “Oh, that’s – ”

Jaskier feels the way he’s hardening between them and his stomach swoops. “Does it hurt?” he asks.

Geralt shakes his head, nipping gently across the edge of Jaskier’s jaw. “Not really,” he answers. “Maybe a bit, but…it feels…. I don’t know how to describe it.” He chuckles softly and buries his face in Jaskier’s neck, hips twitching and dragging his burgeoning erection across Jaskier’s stomach. “ _ Oh. _ ”

Something halfway between an elated laugh and a punched-out moan tumbles from Jaskier’s lips, and he pulls Geralt back into a kiss. This one is messy and uncoordinated, Jaskier too frantically  _ wanting _ to have any finesse. Geralt isn’t much better, hips starting to move slowly and then faster, little gasps and whines tumbling from his mouth with the new sensation.

When the kiss finally breaks, Geralt sits back a little, bracing on Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier groans at the sight of him, hair a messy silver halo and eyes dark, half-lidded as he keeps rutting against Jaskier’s stomach.

“Fuck,” Jaskier hisses, his own hips jerking as his cock fills rapidly enough to make him a little dizzy. “Look at you.”

Geralt chuckles again, the end of the sound twisting up into a little gasp when the head of his cock catches on Jaskier’s belly button. Jaskier laughs, too, dragging his hands down Geralt’s body until he can grasp his hips. All it takes is a little, pointed shove and Geralt is shifting backward a little, until each movement of his hips drags his ass over Jaskier’s cock.

They both moan, and Geralt bends again to kiss him, just as sloppy as the last. Jaskier moves his hands again, trailing from Geralt’s hips to his throat and back down, caressing and pinching at each little spot he has memorized by now. Geralt shudders above him and breaks their kiss with a whimper, hips moving a little faster. His eyes are squeezed shut now, mouth dropped open, and Jaskier reaches up to trace a thumb over his lips.

As if it was what he was waiting for, Geralt sucks his thumb into his mouth, eyes opening halfway. Jaskier groans, nails digging into Geralt’s chest as his cock throbs. Geralt just responds with a particularly slow grind, knocking another groan from Jaskier’s chest.

“Fucking hell, Geralt,” he gasps, rocking his thumb in and out of Geralt’s mouth, just little shifting movements. Geralt flicks his tongue as if Jaskier’s thumb is his cock –  _ exactly _ like that, in fact – and lets his eyes flutter closed again. “Are you gonna come for me, Witcher? Just like this.”

Geralt makes a high, broken sound around Jaskier’s thumb, and it sounds like an affirmative. Jaskier grins and drops his free hand to pet lightly over the head of Geralt’s cock, fingers dancing around where the piercing sits just below the glans. Geralt shivers hard, legs squeezing Jaskier almost enough to hurt. He lets go of Jaskier’s thumb to throw his head back and whine; Jaskier keeps up the touch, ignoring his own rising arousal to watch Geralt shatter above him.

“ _ Jaskier, _ fuck,” he’s gasping and whimpering now, and Jaskier firms his touches a little, dragging his still-wet thumb over a peaked nipple. “Oh,  _ gods, _ fuck – Jaskier –  _ oh –  _ ”

This time it does hurt when Geralt’s legs clamp around him, but Jaskier ignores it. Instead, all of his focus is on Geralt’s face as he twitches wildly and comes, on the way his eyes flutter and his mouth works around little, mostly silent noises.

“That’s it,” Jaskier encourages, stroking over Geralt’s ribs. “Yeah, just like that – fuck, look at you. So pretty like this, especially with that new jewelry.”

Geralt jolts with little whine at that. Jaskier just smiles and keeps petting him, gentling him down from the high as best he can. It takes a moment for him to calm, even after he’s finally spent. Jaskier just contents himself in watching, reveling in the little shivers he can still feel rocking through them both.

“Jaskier,” Geralt pants after a moment, half-collapsing down to kiss him again. It’s the least coordinated one yet, more just Geralt licking over Jaskier’s lips and teeth, but Jaskier doesn’t mind in the slightest. Geralt worms his arms around under Jaskier’s shoulders, until the Witcher is entirely wrapped around him, and Jaskier grins against his cheek.

“Feel good?” he asks. Geralt rumbles a little growl and tips to the side, yanking Jaskier over with him. The bastard just laughs at the surprised yelp that slips from Jaskier’s lips.

They’re kissing again before Jaskier can mount a complaint, and quickly after he doesn’t  _ want  _ to complain, Geralt’s palm wrapping tight and perfect around his cock.

“Oh, fuck, Geralt,” he gasps, lips sliding down to Geralt’s throat. “Fuck,  _ fuck, _ I missed this.”

Geralt hums where his lips have ended up pressed to Jaskier’s hair. “Me too,” he murmurs, and then he’s moving faster, grip tight and becoming slick where Jaskier is leaking everywhere between them. “Missed you, Jaskier.” His free hand comes up to Jaskier’s hair to tug him back into a kiss, this one gentler and more searching.

Jaskier whimpers into it, hips jerking, and Geralt smiles.

“Thank you,” he whispers, in between kisses. “Thank you.”

“For – for what?” Jaskier gasps, trying to keep track of his words somewhere in the rising pleasure. Geralt chuckles and swipes his thumb over the leaking head of him, wiping all of his effort away with ease. Jaskier whines and squeezes his eyes shut, nails biting into Geralt’s side where he’s holding on like his life depends on it. Geralt trails soft, open-mouth kisses along his chin and jaw until he reaches Jaskier’s ear.

“For everything,” he murmurs. “Loving me. Forgiving me.”

Jaskier tries to reply, he does. He wants to tell Geralt that of course he loves him, of course he would forgive him, especially with all of the effort Geralt has put in.

But Geralt chooses that exact moment to bite at his ear and the sensitive spot just beneath it, while thumbing across the head of his cock at the same time, and the tension in Jaskier’s stomach snaps like a twig.

“ _ Oh, _ ” he whines, and the world whites out for a handful of heart beats as he comes.

The world starts to filter back in slowly, noise and color first before anything coalesces into proper sensory input. He hears Geralt’s voice, soft murmured praise, and sees the way the light plays off the angles of him. He hums, sounding dopey even to his own ears, and turns his head to search blindly for Geralt’s mouth.

Geralt kisses him easily, mouth soft and inviting. Jaskier hums again and presses a little closer, heedless of the sheer amount of mess on his belly. Fingers run through his hair, trailing gently over his scalp and along his ear, and he shudders with a happy little sound.

“Perfect,” Geralt mumbles, right up against Jaskier’s mouth. “You’re just – perfect. I love you.”

Jaskier rubs their noses together. “Love you,” he whispers. “Think we probably need to clean your piercings again.”

Geralt laughs. “Probably,” he agrees. His fingers drag through Jaskier’s hair again. “Don’t want to move.”

“Mm,” Jaskier presses his face into Geralt’s neck. “Me either.”

He doesn’t know exactly when he slips into sleep, but he does remember the sound of Geralt whispering, “I swear I’ll never push you away again,” into his hair.

He’s certain he falls asleep grinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> piercings that Jaskier gives Geralt are one in each earlobe, belly button, and a modified king's crown piercing. (bonus points if you noticed the new tag on the fic, which I've been vibrating about adding since I started posting the fic!)
> 
> love you all 💜


	18. chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Think they’ll be coming down any time soon?”_
> 
> Life at Kaer Morhen begins to return to a certain kind of normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eyyyyy a bitch nearly forgot it was wednesday again but here i am! back on my computer like a functioning gremlin again, not that i am a functioning gremlin, but.... 
> 
> mild implication of smut in this one but it's not graphic. also more discussion of book events and mentions of just how goddamn creepy the dryads are, ft. my fascinated hatred of the dryad queen l m a o

“Think they’ll be coming down any time soon?”

Eskel poses the question after dinner, when he, Lambert, and Coën are sitting around the hearth drinking.

Lambert snorts. “What do you think?”

Eskel shrugs. “Just wondering if I need to start taking food up again, is all.”

Lambert waves a hand. “Eh, they can take care of themselves this time. I’m pretty sure they’re just – ”

A loud,  _ loud _ moan, definitely Jaskier, sounds from the general direction of Geralt’s bedroom, interrupting his sentence at the same time it more or less finishes it for him.

They sit silently, shocked, for the space of a heartbeat. And then Coën snorts, taking a long drink of his vodka, and murmurs, “Clearly, they’ve made up properly now.”

Lambert tips off his chair he laughs so hard, and Eskel nearly follows him down.

* * *

The next morning, breakfast is the most relaxed it’s been all winter. Eskel breathes a sigh of relief at the change, and he can tell the rest feel the same – even Ciri, who had been slightly oblivious to it at first, but by now knows very well how awkward it’s been.

Ciri still carries most of the conversation, though that’s more because she has a lot to say. Eskel sees the way Jaskier and Coën are looking at each other and grinning as the princess talks animatedly. It makes him smile, too.

At first, she’s talking about the new things she’s been learning as she’s gone through the library. But then, after mentioning reading about insectoid monsters – which makes Vesemir raise a brow, and Eskel thinks he’ll ask about that later – she switches to a new story.

“One time I saw something like it,” she says, still animated though she looks a little more  _ frightened _ than  _ excited _ now. Eskel thinks if she’s seen a monster at any age, it makes perfect sense. “It wasn’t the same, I don’t think, but similar. The thing in the book was called a – a…myra – no, myria…padon? No! Myriapodan!”

Eskel blinks. Lambert makes an odd choking noise around his bite of food, and Coën and Vesemir both frown.

“Where would you have – ” Coën starts, but Ciri is continuing before he can finish.

“It was in the forest, with the dryads and the creepy queen,” she says. “I ran away from that castle in Verden, because I didn’t like the boy Grandmother wanted me to meet – you were on that hunt, Coën, for the…kakan?”

“Katakan,” Coën corrects automatically, still looking confused.

“Yeah, that – so Grandmother sent me to Verden with a bunch of soldiers instead, and I didn’t want to be there, so I ran away. Ended up in the forest, and saw – it wasn’t one of those things, the myriapodan. But it looked like one.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says softly, at the same time Geralt says, “It was a giant centipede. Called a  _ scolopendromorph _ in the bestiaries.”

This time the shocked confusion at the table is damn near palpable, and Eskel turns to look at Geralt in stunned silence. Before any of them can come up with – well,  _ anything,  _ to say or do, though, Ciri is going wide eyed and shouting.

“You!” she says, and pushes away from the table hard enough she nearly falls over. Coën reaches out to steady her, but she’s already stumbling away in a run, circling the table until she reaches Geralt and flinging her arms around him. Geralt turns and catches her. He and Jaskier finally look as stunned as everyone else. Ciri continues, though, explaining more as she rambles even if she doesn’t mean to. “You were the one who saved me! I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you but – wait! That means – ” she steps back and fixes Geralt with a stern look, something Eskel would laugh at if he wasn’t still completely lost, “we met! And you never said anything about – about the Law of Surprise! And neither did Mousesack!”

“Ah, well,” Jaskier says, but Geralt raises a hand to stop him.

“In my defense,” he murmurs. “ _ You _ told me your name was  _ Fiona. _ ”

Ciri colors. “…Coën and Grandmother always said I shouldn’t let people know I was a princess if I was alone.”

“Thank you for remembering at least  _ one  _ of the things I taught you,” Coën mutters, dropping his head into his hands. “I was gone for  _ a week _ , and….”

That seems to finally break the odd, shocked tension at the table. Eskel snorts and shoves at Coën’s shoulder, and Lambert shakes his head as he goes back to his breakfast.

“You did well,” Geralt praises Ciri quietly. “Now, I think we should finish breakfast and then maybe have this conversation somewhere else, hm?”

Ciri’s blush deepens. “…yeah,” she agrees. She returns to her seat at the table with much more grace than she left it, and even Vesemir chuckles a little.

Eskel fixes Geralt with a look that means  _ we’ll be talking later, too,  _ before returning to his own breakfast. Geralt at least has the decency to look abashed.

* * *

The chance to talk to Geralt comes quicker than he’d thought it would, entirely because Vesemir ends up engaging Ciri about the books she’s been reading in the library and they get distracted with that. He catches up with Geralt in the armory.

Geralt is looking over some of the old trainee swords, expression considering. They’re all ancient and need repairing, something Eskel knows Geralt can do but doesn’t particularly  _ like  _ to do. He leans against the door jamb and watches for a moment. It makes him grin to see the little, familiar tics that Geralt is likely not even aware of, not really. The way he’ll run his hand over a blade, not quite touching but close enough that a single miscalculation could mean an injury; the way he tucks his hair behind his ear over and over again, not pulling it up no matter how many times it falls forward.

How he’ll subconsciously recognize Eskel’s presence before he realizes it consciously, and turn toward him just slightly.  _ Like a flower turning toward the sun,  _ Jaskier had said once, and even years later it still makes him feel a little flushed.

“So,” Eskel starts, chuckling when Geralt almost jumps. He’s not actually startled, just didn’t expect Eskel to say anything, but the illusion of having frightened The White Wolf is an amusing one. “Ciri has been to Brokilon.”

Geralt huffs. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“You never said anything.”

Geralt puts the sword he’s holding down and turns to face Eskel, raising his eyebrows. “What, exactly, would I have said? After all, I was trying very hard to pretend I didn’t have a child surprise.”

Eskel rolls his eyes. “Not  _ that, _ ” he says. “You didn’t think to mention that you’d taken a human girl from Brokilon and gotten away with it? It’s a hell of an accomplishment, Geralt, even for you.”

“You say that like the dryads  _ like  _ me,” Geralt snorts. “I can assure you that that is not the case.”

“Oh no, the dryads don’t  _ like  _ anyone,” Eskel waves a hand. “But they tolerate you. And Eithné hasn’t made you disappear yet, despite the whole mess with – ”

“Don’t bring it up,” Geralt growls, and Eskel laughs.

“Alright, alright. So. Tell me about it.”

Geralt picks up a new sword to inspect. “Pretty simple, really. I was sent into Brokilon to take a message to Eithné; found an old acquaintance, Freixenet, and some companions of his that had gone into the forest after Cirilla – I didn’t know that, at first, obviously. The dryads had killed Freixenet’s companions and injured him. We surrendered to the lot of them when they showed up – ”

“Because you’re not an idiot,” Eskel added in, and Geralt makes an agreeable gesture as he puts down the sword in his hand and grabs another.

“ – and I convinced them to let me continue on to give my message to Eithné. One of them agreed to be my guide, and the others took Freixenet.”

Eskel frowns. “That either means he was killed, or – ”

“Used as a stud,” Geralt nods. “I found him later.”

“Well,” Eskel’s still frowning, “better than the alternative, I suppose.”

Geralt shrugs. They both know what the dryads are like; it’s really up to the constitution of the poor man being used as a stud to determine whether it’s a fate better or worse than death. Eskel doesn’t know this Freixenet character, and Geralt doesn’t seem inclined to elaborate on what he’d thought of the man’s fate. He doesn’t push.

“Braenn was my guide. We came across what we thought was a halfling being attacked by a giant centipede. Managed to kill it, with her help.”

“It wasn’t a halfling, it was Ciri?” Eskel confirms. Geralt nods, and seems to decide upon three swords he’s interested in, setting them aside and then going to inspect some daggers. Eskel walks over to look over the swords he’s chosen. He doesn’t know why Geralt is doing this, but he may as well throw in his opinion if he’s going to be here anyway.

“She said her name was Fiona, and that she was lost. We couldn’t just leave her there, so we took her with us to Duén Canell. About halfway there I realized that the dryads weren’t going to let her leave, either. If it hadn’t been for Freixenet, I wouldn’t have bothered to fight it, but he’s a governor of Verden and was very adamant that if we had found a girl in the forest, she needed to be returned.”

Eskel hums. “I’m sure Eithné disagreed.”

Geralt snorts. “Of course she disagreed,” he says. He returns to where Eskel is looking at the swords he’s chosen with two daggers, one in decent condition and the other in need of repair. “If the dryad Queen had a heart at any point, I’ve never seen much evidence. She agreed to let Cirilla –  _ Fiona  _ – choose her own path, stay in Brokilon or have me take her out, and she wanted to go with me. Eithné tried to trick her with the water.”

There’s something about Geralt’s voice when he says that that makes Eskel look up. Geralt isn’t looking at him, instead looking over the swords and daggers, but his face is pinched and his eyes look haunted.

“You drank instead.”

Geralt shrugs his shoulder and Eskel sighs.

“Dumbass,” he says, but he can’t quite keep the fondness out of his voice. “So you hallucinated, and then Eithné just let you go?”

“More or less, yes,” Geralt murmurs. He picks up one of the swords and twirls it around for a moment. It’s much too short and light for him, making his usually graceful movements clumsy, but it’s fun to watch nonetheless. “Eithné is many things, most of them unpleasant, but she is a woman of her word. She promised that she would leave me be, as she respected my code of honor; and she promised Cirilla she could choose to stay or go, and Cirilla chose to go. As much as the water was a dirty trick, she kept her word.”

“And you didn’t know who Ciri was, the whole time?”

Geralt shakes his head. “I knew she was Cintran, and likely noble because of Freixenet. That was all. A group of knights looking for her found us as we left the forest, and I handed her over when she recognized one by name. It didn’t occur to me who she really was until I looked back and saw her riding away on a horse with Mousesack.”

“Hm.” Eskel looks over Geralt for a moment, and decides to change the subject. “I like the new jewelry,” he says, lightly teasing, nodding toward Geralt’s ears.

Eskel knows well that if Geralt could blush, he’d be bright pink. He grins.

“Fuck off,” Geralt mumbles, but there’s no heat to it, and Eskel can see the way the corners of his mouth are twitching.

“I’m serious,” Eskel says. “They look good. Never thought you’d wear anything except the medallion, jewelry-wise.”

Geralt quirks a brow and leans back against one of the tables nearby. “These aren’t the only ones, you know,” he says, voice low, and Eskel feels a tug low in his gut.

“Oh?”

Geralt smirks. Eskel licks his lips and hopes no one needs them for a few hours.

* * *

Three days later, Eskel finally finds out what Geralt was doing with the swords and daggers in the armory. He knows he’s been repairing them, but Geralt had been mum on  _ why. _ Eskel can guess that it has something to do with Ciri, because he’s not actually an idiot, but he can’t really piece together why Geralt would be repairing old weapons for the princess.

He knows there are better-kept weapons he could give her. In fact, Eskel is pretty sure Coën has already provided her a dagger, though he’s got no idea if it was something he gave her after they arrived at the keep or before. And more than that, Eskel really isn’t sure that a sword is the best gift to give a traumatized teenage girl, princess or not.

Of course, this  _ is _ Geralt. Eskel supposes they’re lucky Geralt isn’t just making her food and hoping she notices what he’s not saying.

He sees Geralt taking the sword and the dagger outside to where Coën and Ciri are in the courtyard. Both are now repaired and looking, well, frankly, very nice; Eskel will have to congratulate him on it later. For now, he follows him out to see what, exactly, Geralt is going to do. He stays back a little, not wanting to intrude, just to watch.

“Cirilla, if I could speak to you?” Geralt says it softly, not really quiet, but there’s a tone to his voice that gentles the words.

Eskel snorts quietly. Geralt wouldn’t know, and really someone should have corrected him by now, but –

“Don’t call me that,” Ciri says, nose wrinkling. Despite that, she hands Coën the little wooden dagger she has in her hands – it looks like they had been working on footwork – and turns to Geralt. “What are those?”

Geralt kneels down and sets the dagger and sword in front of her. “An apology,” he explains.

Suddenly, Eskel feels like maybe he  _ shouldn’t _ be watching this. He catches Coën’s gaze from across the courtyard and from his expression, he’s not the only one thinking it. Neither of them leave, though.

“I shouldn’t have run away,” Geralt continues, looking up from the weapons at her feet to her face. She’s gone wide-eyed in shock, mouth a little ‘o’. “I should have stayed, and I should have taken responsibility for my choice. I can only be glad that nothing terrible happened to you, and that when something terrible did happen, that Coën was there to protect you in my stead.” Geralt nods in Coën’s direction, and Coën nods back.

“So I wanted to apologize.” Geralt picks up the sword again, offering it to Ciri to hold. She takes it, a little tentative, and Eskel is shocked to see she knows how to hold it, though she’s clearly unpracticed at it. He looks at Coën again, who catches his eye and shrugs.

Ciri turns to hand the sword to Coën, who takes it easily. When she turns back, Geralt offers the dagger.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “For what I did before, and what I’ve done recently. I’m sorry for your losses, as well, and hope you know that you are free to talk to me, if you should need or want.”

Eskel feels his own mouth drop open. He can count on one hand the times he’s heard Geralt say the words  _ I’m sorry, _ and all of those times it was like pulling teeth. Geralt can be eloquent when he wants to, and Eskel knows that, but it’s  _ rare _ that he wants to. Even rarer that it’s paired with an apology, and a clearly sincere one, too.

Ciri takes the dagger, and Eskel can see that she’s more familiar with the heft of it. She studies it more closely than the sword, but turns and hands it to Coën, as well. When she turns back to Geralt, there’s a serious look on her face. Eskel can practically feel Geralt tensing, and he tenses too in sympathy.

And then Ciri practically throws herself at Geralt, wrapping her arms around his neck and forcing him back until he’s sitting on his heels. He catches her around the waist, making a soft noise as she buries her face in his neck and her hair flies into his face. Eskel feels like he may start to cry, too, watching, as Geralt takes a deep breath and then  _ relaxes, _ holding Ciri close as she squeezes his neck.

It lasts for the space of several breaths, and then Ciri is pulling back, but she keeps her hands on Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt keeps a hold of her waist in return.

“I forgive you,” Ciri says, with conviction. For the first time since her arrival, Eskel can see her royal upbringing in her, in the way she holds her chin high and speaks with perfect clarity. As if she’s delivering a decree. “Not only that, but I’m…honestly glad you never came.”

Geralt makes a questioning noise, and Ciri drops the royal air to smile, a little sheepish. “I had grandmother and Eist. And Mousesack, and Coën – ” she turns to smile at Coën, and he smiles back, “and Jaskier, sometimes. I didn’t know about you, so I never knew to miss you, or to feel like I had been left behind. If you had come for me…. I don’t think I would have wanted to go with you.”

They’re quiet for a moment. Eskel can’t see Geralt’s face, but he can make a fairly educated guess of what it looks like – wide-eyed and probably a little misty, brow furrowed, mouth just slightly open.

When Geralt speaks, his voice is low and rough. It more or less confirms Eskel’s thoughts, and he smiles.

“I am very glad, then,” he says. “Thank you.”

Ciri giggles, and ducks down to hug him again. Eskel’s smile widens, and when Coën catches his eye once more, he gestures toward the castle. They both slip back in, Coën leaving the sword and dagger leaned against one of the walls.

Eskel finds himself smiling about it for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's fitting that this chapter is from eskel's perspective because i've been listening to 'achilles come down' by gang of youths and having geralt/eskel fits for two days now lmao
> 
> love you all :D


	19. chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The keep finally settles into something resembling a routine._
> 
> Sometimes a family is five Witchers, a feral bard, and an equally feral tween princess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit my life is a _hot mess_ and i am EXHAUSTED but here i am! i remembered what day it was an everything!
> 
> mentions of the fact that jaskier is fucking geralt, eskel, and lambert in this one, but no explicit details. also mention of ciri growing up with horny guardians lmao.
> 
> also warning: next chapter is porn, in case you want to skip!

With the looming specter of Jaskier and Geralt’s fight gone, and Geralt and Ciri finally properly introduced, the keep finally settles into something resembling a routine. It’s vastly different than previous years, of course, with the addition of Coën and Ciri, but now it feels more like the home Jaskier considers it to be.

Jaskier knows everyone else agrees, just by the sheer amount of dissipated tension there is when Geralt begins interacting with everyone willingly.

He spends a lot of time with Ciri, becoming her general tutor now that he’s the only one around to do it. Vesemir and Coën take up teaching her about monsters and magic. The rest of them sort of rotate with Coën on teaching her how to use her new sword and dagger, as well as other general physical training and combat. It’s nice, actually, each day filled with things to do and each night finally filled with laughter and drinking like it should be.

Of course, that doesn’t mean there’s not – ah – mishaps.

* * *

The first time Ciri nearly finds Jaskier in a compromised position, it’s because Lambert has decided to corner him and ask about Geralt’s piercings. Which, of course, leads to some heavy petting, because Jaskier has been rather busy for quite a while and hasn’t been able to tend to his Witchers (aside from Geralt) the way he usually does during their winters together.

Ciri comes walking around a corner – thankfully backwards, as she’s speaking to Coën – and they spring apart guiltily. By the time Ciri and Coën pass them on their way out to the courtyard, they look perfectly presentable, but Coën gives them a knowing look that sets Jaskier’s cheeks ablaze.

After that, well. It keeps happening.

Next, he’s with Geralt, and it’s such a narrow miss Jaskier could  _ swear  _ Ciri was following them intentionally. After that Lambert again, and then Eskel, and, well. Jaskier’s starting to get a little cagey.

Because unfortunately, Ciri has started to have nightmares, and their nights are no longer worry free or uninterrupted.

Which, of course, makes perfect sense. And Jaskier would  _ never _ think ill of Ciri for it, doesn’t think anything of the sort – in fact, he’s usually the first up and running to her room when the screaming starts, aside from Coën.  _ But. _ It is making life a little bit difficult.

To add on, Eskel has asked about the piercings, too, and during one of those late-night discussions when the vodka was flowing freely, asked if Jaskier could pierce  _ him.  _ And then Lambert had expressed his own desire to be pierced. So Jaskier is thinking about that almost constantly, when he’s not in Ciri’s immediate presence, and he can’t seem to find any sort of time to  _ do _ any of it.

Finally, he surrenders his mostly non-existent dignity and speaks to Coën.

The Griffin is, expectedly, humorously judgmental.

“You want me to distract Ciri,” he repeats, and Jaskier nods, ignoring the way he feels his cheeks heating up.

“Yes, please.”

“So you and the others can – what?”

Jaskier sighs, knowing full well that Coën heard him perfectly the first time and just wants to rake him over the coals a bit. Coën is the politest and most – well,  _ knightly _ of the Witchers Jaskier is acquainted with, but he’s also been finding that there’s a sharp edge to him. He likes sarcasm, likes to tease, and Jaskier was thrilled to discover these things, of course he was.

He’s a little less thrilled to be on the receiving end, is all.

“I have a skill for the art of piercing,” Jaskier says. “And Eskel and Lambert would like me to put that skill to use on them. Now, that, in and of itself, wouldn’t be much of a problem, but….”

“But…?” Coën smirks. Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“But it’s likely to begin and end in some decently athletic sex. Or, I hope so.”

Coën snorts. “You really have no shame,” he says, shaking his head. “I suppose – ”

He’s interrupted by giggling, and they both whip around to see Ciri has appeared around a nearby corner. She looks incredibly mischievous, eyes alight and covering her mouth to try and muffle the laughter a little. Jaskier frowns.

“Ciri, eavesdropping is rude,” he scolds, but the girl just laughs at him some more.

“It’s not like I didn’t know you lot were fucking,” Ciri giggles.

Jaskier’s eyes go wide and Coën barks out a terse, “Cirilla!”

She colors a bit, but doesn’t bother to apologize. Jaskier runs a hand over his face, lamenting that even in such little time, the presence of so many Witchers has totally ruined her decorum.

“Anyway,” she continues, “it’s nothing  _ new. _ I used to make a game out of it, at home.” Her tone dips into sadness for a moment, but she clearly shakes it off. Jaskier wonders if she’s naturally this brave or if it’s an act, and decides that he should have a serious talk to her about it sometime soon.

Not right now, though, obviously.

“A game? Out of what?” Coën asks. He clearly assumes he knows everything about Ciri’s time at the castle, and Jaskier figures he’s got a right.

But he also grew up a noble brat and knows better.

Ciri shrugs. “How many places I would accidentally catch grandmother and Eist, and sometimes Mousesack, in a week. One time, I found them in  _ twenty-three  _ different places! In seven days! Mousesack was there for  _ ten _ of those!”

Jaskier can’t help himself. He laughs. It’s tinged with hysteria, because  _ what the fuck,  _ but he’s laughing all the same. When he manages to clear tears from his eyes enough to see Coën, the Witcher’s face has gone pale and pinched, and that just makes him laugh  _ more.  _ Ciri is giggling again, too, clearly amused by the Witcher’s reaction to this news.

She’s an awful menace. No wonder she and Lambert get along so well.

He loves her so much he could burst.

* * *

Despite continued ribbing from Coën (once he’d recovered from the shock of Ciri’s weird numbers game), and Vesemir rolling his eyes, it’s agreed that they – Coën and Vesemir, that is – will take Ciri out to teach her some basics of winter survival.

Once the storm currently ravaging the mountain passes, of course. Vesemir was clear they would be gone for three days and two nights, very plainly implying that Jaskier and the others should wind up their, hm,  _ business _ in that time. Jaskier had given a dramatic bow and equally dramatic promise that nothing would be amiss when they returned.

Vesemir rolls his eyes again and hits Jaskier over the head with a bit of kindling in his hand.

Jaskier sticks his tongue out when the rest of them burst into giggles about it, Ciri included.

The storm is a large one, and it prevents them from going outside for anything more than taking care of the animals and gathering more firewood. As usual, those tasks are relegated to Geralt, Eskel, or Lambert; Coën will go, occasionally, but he rarely spends much time away from Ciri, and none of them dare try to pry them apart.

Jaskier knows full well that the reason Ciri is doing so well is entirely because of Coën’s presence. He’s the only thing from her home that she still has. None of them want to try and take that from her.

It’s late, but the height of the storm has made it near impossible to venture out for more firewood. The last time Eskel and Geralt had gone out it was noon, and they’d secured the animals the best they could to wait it out, and brought in as much firewood as they could physically carry in the two trips they could make before being nearly buried.

All of them are in the common room tonight, gathered around the hearth to reduce the amount of firewood that has to be used or moved around. A few extra couches have been dragged in and dusted off, covered in furs, to serve as makeshift beds. Luckily, Jaskier can pile on top of Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert, none of them afraid of being close, and it saves body heat. Vesemir has an old armchair and footstool for himself, and Ciri and Coën are sharing another couch.

Or they will, when everyone eventually sleeps. For now, Eskel and Coën are playing dice, Vesemir and Ciri are reading, and Geralt is dozing in Jaskier’s lap while Lambert fusses with furs and pillows.

Ciri ends up dozing off in front of the fire, curled up amongst a little nest of pillows. Jaskier feels himself smile when Vesemir carefully places a blanket over her, pausing a moment to push her hair out of her face. She shifts and murmurs but doesn’t wake, and when Vesemir sits back down, he’s got a soft smile on his face.

He looks fatherly.

Jaskier’s chest roars like the fire.

* * *

He’s woken by screaming. By now, he knows instinctively what’s happening; even before anyone else can move, he’s stumbling out of their makeshift bed and over to where Ciri is still on the hearth rug. (Quite an accomplishment, considering everyone else here is a Witcher.)

Ciri continues to whimper and scream even as Jaskier tries to wake her. Eventually, she starts to thrash, and Jaskier wraps his arms tight around her to try and stop it. When he looks up, Vesemir is standing at the edge of the rug, bent and with a hand out. Hesitating.

“C’mere,” Jaskier murmurs, and Vesemir drops to his knees to help cage Ciri in. She’s still whimpering, but the screaming dies down, and the thrashing slows. She still isn’t waking. Jaskier looks around to see the other four looking on, clearly concerned, and he jerks his head toward them. “Come on,” he prods softly.

Slowly, one by one, they come over, sitting around where Jaskier and Vesemir are holding Ciri. Eskel first, and then Geralt, and then Lambert; Geralt sits nearest the fire, back to the flames, and pets carefully through Ciri’s tangled hair. Eskel sits to Jaskier’s side and throws an arm around his shoulders. Lambert sits next to him and drapes his arm around Vesemir. It leaves both of them with a hand free to rest on Ciri’s shoulder.

Coën is hesitating, looking concerned and worried but also…scared.

“She’ll want you here, Coën,” Geralt says quietly. “Come, by me.”

Coën hesitates for a moment more, and then circles them to settle on his knees next to Geralt. Vesemir shifts to let Coën get an arm around the girl, and finally, Ciri’s whimpering calms and she relaxes back against Jaskier’s chest.

“Ciri, darling,” Jaskier murmurs, petting her hair with Geralt. “Ciri, love, can you hear me? Wake up, darling.”

She stirs, snorts, and then jolts awake, only managing to sit about three inches up from Jaskier’s chest before she seems to realize where she is and collapses back down again.

“Nightmare,” she murmurs, and turns her head to press more into Geralt’s touch. They all shift to let her. “I…you’re all here.”

“We are,” Eskel says. “Would you like us to go?”

Ciri looks at him and shakes her head. “No, I…can…can you all stay? Here. With me.”

There’s a murmur of assent echoed by all of them, and Jaskier smiles when he presses a kiss to Ciri’s temple. “Let’s get laid down more comfortably, hm? Lambert, Eskel, can you go grab the blankets and pillows?”

The Witchers nod and move in tandem, going over to the makeshift beds and gathering all of the blankets and pillows. While they work, Jaskier shifts back and lays down, putting Ciri in front of him. Geralt moves to the side, letting Coën lay down at her front. She latches on to him easily, fingers tight in his shirt. He just smiles down at her and covers her hands with his own.

Jaskier’s still tired, and so as the others move and arrange a rather nice nest around them, he loses track of who is where. He also loses track of time, dozing in and out as he listens carefully to Ciri’s breathing as she calms, and slowly slips back into a hopefully restful sleep. Coën shifts and puts an arm above her head, under Jaskier’s neck, eyes filled with question. Jaskier blinks sleepily at him and smiles with a small nod. The Witcher nods back and seems to relax for the first time since Ciri woke them up, one hand still covering Ciri’s smaller ones on his chest.

Eventually, Jaskier falls into sleep, warm and surrounded by his Witchers, with Ciri tucked close to his chest and as safe as she’s ever been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god i live for comments at this point pls talk to me. you can also come yammer at me (about this fic or just in general) on discord! my personal is nitwitchery#7070, and there's a link to join the 18+ BIKM server in the end notes of the whole fic. we're crazy and full of filth :D
> 
> and just so everyone sees it: next chapter is going to be porn if you need/want to skip it!


	20. chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ciri pipes up, “I heard Jaskier say something about athletic sex.” Everyone collectively groans. She just beams at them, a feral little twinkle in her eye._
> 
> The boys get some time alone to really get reaquainted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i almost forgot it was wesdneday again :D time isn't reaaaaaal
> 
> this is just porn, so feel free to skip! shouldn't be anything plot-important here.

The storm clears, and Vesemir, Coën, and Ciri pack up and head out.

“We won’t be going too far,” Vesemir tells them. “Only enough to make sure the wildlife isn’t cautious of the castle perimeter.”

“Of course,” Geralt nods. “We’ll be – ”

Coën smirks, and Jaskier colors, and Lambert snorts.

“We know,” Ciri pipes up, “I heard Jaskier say something about athletic sex.” Everyone collectively groans. She just beams at them, a feral little twinkle in her eye.

* * *

Jaskier can  _ sense _ the tension in the three of them as Vesemir and Coën take Ciri out the front doors and into the woods.

They’re standing in a loose semicircle around Jaskier, all of them watching as Vesemir, Coën, and Ciri disappear slowly over the hazy white horizon with one of Vesemir’s cobs as a packhorse. Jaskier grins as he feels the tension ratchet up the moment they crest the hill and start to disappear. As soon as they finally  _ do _ disappear, someone has him around the waist and is lifting him in the air.

He shrieks and laughs, tipping his head back onto a broad shoulder to find that it’s Eskel who has picked him up.

“Hi,” he chuckles.

Eskel just makes a low sound and nips at Jaskier’s throat. Jaskier gasps and his legs jerk where he’s just hanging in the air. Geralt crowds up in front of him, and Jaskier wraps around him instead, legs and arms; Eskel lets go of him at that, and then he’s being carried upstairs. Lambert trails behind them muttering something Jaskier doesn’t hear.

They end up in Geralt’s room, since all of Jaskier’s piercing equipment is already there. Geralt finally lets him back onto his own feet, and Jaskier takes the chance to snag Lambert by the hair – not gently – and drag him into a kiss. The Witcher practically melts into him with a low, rumbling growl, and Jaskier grins against his lips.

He loses himself in kissing Lambert for a moment, letting the Witcher pull at his clothes and grope over his body eagerly. For his part, he just fists his hands tightly into Lambert’s hair and tugs to direct the kiss as it gets messier. Vaguely, he hears Geralt and Eskel talking quietly, and then the sound of rustling clothing, but he doesn’t let it distract him from sucking on Lambert’s tongue, slipping one hand down to the nape of his neck and gripping, nails digging into the skin.

Lambert tears back from their kiss to whimper, pressing his face into Jaskier’s throat. “Fuck,” he pants.

Jaskier drops a chaste kiss to his head. “Is that what you want?”

Lambert makes a low, wanting sound somewhere in his throat, and Jaskier laughs. He hums thoughtfully.

“Well, I supposed if you want to fuck  _ properly,  _ we should do it tonight.”

“What?” Eskel asks.

Jaskier shrugs and gently pushes Lambert away. He makes an upset sound, but then notices that Eskel and Geralt are mostly naked and Jaskier is working on his own clothes, and joins in.

“Depending on the piercings you want,” he explains, “we won’t be able to do much after them.”

“Ah.” Eskel quirks a brow. “Like what kind of piercings?

Jaskier rolls his eyes, finishing stripping his clothes – he keeps his smallclothes for now – and striding over to straddle Eskel where he’s sitting at the end of Geralt’s bed. “I know you’ve seen Geralt’s,” he murmurs, leaning down just close enough that he knows Eskel can feel the way his mouth moves. Eskel makes a soft, broken sound and pulls him bodily into a deep, wet kiss.

“Is Jaskier deciding for you two, as well?” Geralt asks, as Eskel finally releases Jaskier from the kiss and Lambert crowds up behind him. Jaskier tips his head back and Lambert kisses him again, while Eskel bites his way down Jaskier’s throat.

“What?” Eskel mumbles.

Geralt snorts. “He decided for me,” he explains.

Lambert gives a hum, considering, then grinds his hips forward so his cock, still covered by thin cotton, presses into Jaskier’s back. Eskel chooses that same moment to bite down hard on Jaskier’s collarbone, sending sparks up his spine.

“Fuck,” he grunts, grip going bruise-tight on Eskel’s shoulders. “ _ Fuck. _ You two chose. I can decide where to pierce you or you can tell me where.”

Geralt suddenly appears at his side, grabbing at his jaw to turn his head. Jaskier goes easily, giving in to the kiss the same way he gives in to the way Eskel starts to move his hips for him, grinding them together. He’s not really sure who is in charge here, if anyone is in charge at all, but right now it feels so good he doesn’t really give a fuck. He whines into Geralt’s mouth when Lambert’s hand slips into his smallclothes to palm roughly at his ass.

“Missed you,” Lambert hisses in his ear, fingers already trailing down toward Jaskier’s hole. “Gods, been too long.”

Jaskier huffs out a laugh when Geralt lets his mouth go. “Impatient,” he mutters, but he cants his hips back to give the Witcher better access. Lambert groans and pulls his smallclothes down until he’s exposed. He shivers with the gust of cold air, and then he hears a thud. Before he can turn or ask what happened, Lambert’s spreading his cheeks and licking across his hole.

“Oh  _ sweet fuck, _ Lambert!” Jaskier cries out, hips jerking. Eskel laughs and clamps his hands down on them, making it so Jaskier can’t push closer  _ or  _ move away from the tantalizing touch, and he whines. “Fuck, fuck.”

Geralt disappears for a moment, and Jaskier can’t see him when he comes back but he can hear him. He’s got a decent idea of what the Witcher is doing, but can’t be sure until –

“Oh  _ shit, _ ” Lambert hisses, right into Jaskier’s ass. The vibration of it, coupled with the beginnings of beard burn on his cheeks, make Jaskier shudder and whimper. Eskel chuckles again and nudges him up so they can kiss again. There’s wet sounds coming from behind Jaskier, where he’s sure Geralt is fingering Lambert open for – one of them, at least, Jaskier doesn’t bother to try and puzzle out who is going where. Not when Eskel’s tongue in his mouth is demanding and Lambert starts up again, tongue soft and wet trailing from Jaskier’s balls to his hole, over and over again in a sloppy rhythm that  _ almost  _ matches the sound of Geralt’s fingers in his ass.

Eskel grinds his hips up into Jaskier’s, giving him just enough friction to make him feel all limp and whimpery, but not nearly enough to get him off.

“I think I’ll let you decide,” he whispers into Jaskier’s ear. “You did a good job on Geralt.”

“Gods,” Jaskier gasps, and pulls him into another kiss.

Time ceases to have meaning for a good stretch, until eventually Lambert’s impatience returns.

“Just –  _ fuck, _ Geralt, my dick is going to fall off if we wait around any longer.”

Geralt snorts, and so does Eskel. Jaskier turns to look back at them, Lambert having leaned away from his ass, mouth slack and eyes wide and glazed. Geralt hasn’t stopped fingering him, even though he’s more than ready, judging by the wet sound each thrust of Geralt’s hand makes.

“Don’t get too impatient, darling,” Jaskier drawls. “Or we might have to make you wait on principle.”

Lambert scoffs, but it turns into a desperate whine when Geralt does something with his fingers. Jaskier grins and turns back to Eskel.

“What do you think?” he asks, louder than he actually needs to. “Should we keep him waiting?”

“Fuck, no, don’t – ”

“I think so,” Eskel grins right back at him, and then Jaskier is being moved, quick and effortless. His smallclothes get lost in the fray, and when he’s finally settled and reoriented, he finds that he’s still straddling Eskel’s lap, just the other way around.

His cock bobs eagerly, barely inches from Lambert’s face, and Jaskier groans. He presses his head back into Eskel’s shoulder, lets his broad chest take his weight for a moment as he pants.

“We know you want it, Lambert,” Geralt purrs. “Go on.”

Jaskier looks down just in time to see Lambert leaning forward, tongue out like a fucking welcome mat for the head of his cock. He whimpers at the first touch, and whimpers some more when Lambert immediately bobs forward to choke himself. Geralt does something with his fingers again, the wet squelch practically echoing, and Lambert groans around his cock.

“Fuck, fuck,  _ Lambert, _ ” Jaskier moans, squirming. Eskel wraps a staying arm around his chest, other hand doing – something else, Jaskier doesn’t have the attention span to care, not when Lambert is giving him possibly the sloppiest blowjob he’s ever received.

He keeps choking and gagging each time Jaskier slips into his throat, but he looks more than blissed out, eyes fluttering and dark as honey. “ _ Gods.  _ Look at you, Lambert, so fucking –  _ oh,  _ fuck….”

Geralt chuckles and finally pulls his fingers out of Lambert, ignoring the little whine he gets for it. He looks over them for a moment, Lambert still sucking Jaskier’s cock and Jaskier held fast by Eskel’s bulk, and hums appreciatively. After taking his fill, though, he turns back to Lambert, threading his clean hand through Lambert’s hair.

It’s longer, this winter, and Jaskier wonders if Lambert did that on purpose.

“You can do better than that, Lambert,” Geralt murmurs, and both Lambert and Jaskier jerk like they’ve been shocked. Eskel huffs, nibbling at Jaskier’s throat, and then there’s slick fingers pressed to his hole.

“Oh, gods, Eskel, I’m – ” Jaskier tries to writhe but can’t move, held steady and firm by Eskel’s arm around his chest and how wide his legs are stretched to settle him over the Witcher’s lap. “Fuck, fuck,  _ oh,  _ darling,  _ please. _ ”

Eskel makes a low noise, something like assent, and a single thick finger sinks into Jaskier’s body at the same time Geralt starts moving Lambert’s head  _ for  _ him. Like he’s some kind of toy, and  _ oh fuck. _ Jaskier tries to squirm again and is just as unsuccessful as before.

Lambert’s whimpering and groaning whenever he can around Jaskier’s cock in his mouth and it just makes it better, makes Jaskier arch closer and shove down on Eskel’s probing finger. He doesn’t know when Geralt and Eskel decided they were in charge of this particular show, but he can hardly complain about it, pleasure spiraling higher each time Lambert gags on his cock and then moans for it.

A second finger presses against his hole and he keens, bearing down to speed up the process, wanting  _ more. _ Eskel chuckles in his ear, murmuring, “Eager,” and moving a little faster. Jaskier just makes a wordless sound of agreement and keeps rocking between the fingers in his ass and Lambert’s face.

He loses time again, but at some point he realizes he’s teetering close to the edge.

“Fuck, fuck – gonna –  _ oh,  _ gods, Lambert, Geralt –  _ Eskel _ – ”

Eskel’s arm moves from his chest to his cock, squeezing at the base. Jaskier makes a broken sound and writhes, panting when all that does is make him hyper aware of where Eskel has three fingers buried inside him.

“Not yet,” Geralt says, finally pulling Lambert back. Jaskier looks down at him and he looks  _ wrecked, _ face wet with tears and saliva, lips swollen and mouth slack. His eyes are hazy but burning, and Jaskier reaches out to him. It takes a second of fumbling, but Lambert kneels up and Jaskier leans forward to kiss him, heedless of the mess. Lambert whimpers into it, clearly desperate, and Jaskier tries to make up for the waiting by dragging his nails down Lambert’s chest.

The Witcher sways forward with a soft, wanting noise, eyes fluttering, and Jaskier’s cock throbs hard in Eskel’s tight grip.

Geralt pets Jaskier's hair and pulls him up into a kiss, surprisingly gentle for the fierce look on the Witcher’s face. Jaskier whimpers into it, then moans when Eskel presses mercilessly against his prostate.

“ _ Fuck, _ Eskel,” Jaskier gasps.

Geralt and Eskel just chuckle.

“Come on, Lambert,” Geralt says softly. “Up, on the bed.”

Lambert groans but scrambles to his feet, cock nearly purple, and Jaskier’s mouth waters. Eskel nips at his ear, but slowly lets go of his reddened cock and slips his fingers out of Jaskier. He bites back a soft, mourning noise.

Geralt pulls him to his feet and into another kiss, this one a little rougher. Jaskier lets him have the control, clinging weakly to his shoulders and mouth mostly slack for the treatment.

“I want to watch you fuck him,” Geralt murmurs, licking over Jaskier’s bottom lip and then sucking it into his mouth with a wet sound. Jaskier shudders in his arms and nods a little. “And then I want to watch Eskel fuck you.”

“ _ Gods, _ ” Jaskier hisses. “Yeah, yeah.”

Geralt grins, teeth bared like the wolf on their medallions and pushes him gently toward the bed. He clambers up onto it and falls immediately between Lambert’s legs, accepting the greedy kiss that’s planted on him and the caging limbs that wrap around him.

“Please,” Lambert breathes between messy kisses. “ _ Please, _ Jaskier, please, want you.”

Jaskier groans and leans down to bite at Lambert’s throat, sucking on the chain of his medallion when it ends up in his mouth. Lambert just whines and arches toward the bites.

“Tell me what you want, love,” Jaskier orders. There’s not as much command in his voice as usual, he’s just as wrecked by Geralt and Eskel’s machinations as Lambert, but it’s still there, and Lambert obeys like he doesn’t even notice.

“Want your cock,” Lambert murmurs, licking at Jaskier’s ear and then sucking on his earlobe. “Want you to bite me.”

Jaskier shivers. “Good,” he says. “I’ll give you whatever you want, darling. And tomorrow, I’ll be able to finally mark you for real.”

Lambert  _ wails,  _ and Jaskier feels his cock blurt out precome between their bellies.

“Fuck, you like that,” Jaskier mutters, a little redundantly. He sinks his teeth into Lambert’s throat again and lines up their hips, just teasing for a moment, the threat of pressure more than any actual pressure. Lambert whines. “Tell me what you want, love,” Jaskier murmurs, right into his ear. “What kind of piercing do you think I should give you?”

Lambert whines again, more desperate this time, and Jaskier decides he’s been teased enough. It only takes a few careful nudges before he’s sinking inside the Witcher, and they both let out shattered noises.

“ _ Yes, _ ” Lambert hisses. “Yes, that – oh, fuck, Jaskier – and – and –  _ shitfuckinghell – _ ”

“Tell me,” Jaskier prompts again, though he doesn’t stop rocking his hips, slowly moving faster. “I think you’d look pretty with anything. Tell me what you think you want.”

Lambert gasps and seems to be struggling to find words, even as his hips pulse to match Jaskier’s pace and his cock twitches wildly between them. “I –  _ yes, _ ” he repeats, and his eyes are wide. “ _ Yes,  _ Jaskier. Want – want everything.”

Jaskier’s eyes roll at that, images flashing in his mind of all the different things he could give Lambert, all of the places on his body he could mark with pretty jewelry. “Fuck, Lambert, I – can I choose? Please?”

Lambert nods frantically, and then Jaskier shifts his angle and he throws his head back with something edging on a scream. Jaskier grunts and moves faster, harder, nails digging in and leaving little crescent marks where he’s gripping Lambert to hold him still. When Lambert is right on the edge, shivering and whimpering continuously, Jaskier manages to pry one hand from his waist to grasp his cock.

That’s all it takes. Lambert seizes and wails, painting their bellies with cum and nearly taking Jaskier straight off the edge with him. He manages to hold back by the skin of his teeth, working Lambert through his pleasure the best he can.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck, fuck, I –  _ Lambert. _ ” He leans forward and kisses the Witcher, this one soft and loving and still full of tongue. Lambert makes a sleepy, pleased sound into his mouth. “Gods. So pretty, look at you.” Jaskier peppers clumsy kisses over Lambert’s face and smiles when Lambert seems to luxuriate in the treatment.

And then Eskel’s hands are gentle on his waist and his stomach swoops. “ _ Oh, _ ” he murmurs, and goes easily when Eskel pulls him back from Lambert. Lambert just makes a vaguely agreeable noise and squirms over to the other side of the bed, collapsing onto his side and watching them with half-open eyes.

Eskel maneuvers him until he’s on his hands and knees, stroking softly down his spine and squeezing his ass. Jaskier shudders and bucks back, wanting him to get on with it, but he’s distracted by Geralt kneeing onto the bed. He’s hard, stroking himself lightly, and Jaskier’s mouth is watering all over again. He licks his lips and Geralt makes a sharp sound, his free hand petting through Jaskier’s hair and settling to grip at the back of his head.

Jaskier shudders again, a little moan punching out of him when Eskel sinks three oil-slick fingers into him at once. He’s still stretched, but it’s a lot at once without any warning. He whines when Eskel starts to move, scissoring his fingers as he thrusts in and out a handful of times.

“Fuck, fuck, Eskel,  _ please, _ ” Jaskier pants. “Geralt, want – oh  _ fuck. _ ”

Geralt swipes his thumb over the precome glistening on his head and then shoves that thumb into Jaskier’s mouth. Jaskier whines around it and sucks, sloppy, until he can’t taste anything but his own saliva and salt. Geralt takes his thumb back and trails it over his cock with a little gasp.

“Please,” Jaskier tries again. “Want – want both of you,  _ please. _ ”

Geralt chuckles. “Eskel,” he murmurs, and Eskel’s fingers disappear only to be replaced with the wide head of his cock. Jaskier’s breath rushes out of his chest with the first thrust, and he struggles for a moment to find it again with Eskel fully seated.

“ _ Fuck, _ ” he finally pants out. “Fuck,  _ move, _ please.”

Eskel chuckles as well, but does as requested. Slow at first, and then faster, until Jaskier is moaning with each movement, mouth slack and eyes rolling. Geralt’s hand moves forward to cup his cheek, and he fights to keep his eyes open and focused on him. Geralt’s still stroking his cock with the other hand, and Jaskier watches the flash of the jewelry as his foreskin moves. His mouth waters even more.

“I’m all healed,” Geralt murmurs, thumbing over the piercing. He chews his lip and breathes out hard through his nose as he does.

Jaskier hiccups through a handful of Eskel’s thrusts, eyes going hazy again, but manages to whimper out, “Sensitive?”

Geralt nods. “Yeah,” he breathes. He shuffles a little closer, and Jaskier makes a greedy noise, straining forward until he can suck the wet head into his mouth. He moans around it, making Geralt grip tightly at his hair. He just moans again for that and bobs forward, shivering at the odd feeling of the piercing against the top of his mouth. It doesn’t stop him though, and he slowly works down Geralt’s cock, whimpers muffled as Eskel continues to fuck him.

He wants to come, but he feels almost suspended, like he could exist here forever; impaled between Eskel and Geralt, Lambert sated on the other side of the bed and watching hungrily still. Geralt’s piercing makes him gag sooner than he usually would, but he swallows through it and revels in the broken, high noise Geralt makes in response.

“Fuck, Jaskier,” he growls, grip tightening and relaxing in Jaskier’s hair in turns. “Gods, you feel so fucking  _ good. _ ”

Eskel grunts and mutters, “ _ Perfect, _ ” in agreement, and Jaskier whines around Geralt’s cock, his own throbbing, neglected.

“S’okay buttercup,” Lambert murmurs. He wriggles closer, lying to Jaskier’s side on his back so he can reach between Jaskier and the bed and toy with his cock. Jaskier feels tears spring to his eyes for more reasons than Geralt’s cock battering at his throat, and Lambert chuckles. “Come whenever you want.”

“Yeah,” Eskel says, and somehow moves even faster. Geralt just makes a strange, garbled noise and comes against the back of Jaskier’s tongue. He chokes a little but swallows it, head spinning, and he comes right after as Lambert flicks almost painfully over his slit; Eskel follows him down with a punched-out keen, folding over Jaskier’s back and holding him tight enough to bruise.

Jaskier loses track of time again as they come down. He’s vaguely aware of being moved, and cleaned up, and wrapped in strong, possessive arms, but not much else. He falls asleep with his skin buzzing from residual pleasure and all-encompassing heat, and has very pleasant dreams about yellow eyes.

* * *

It’s late when he wakes, slow and easy, still surrounded by the truly incredible heat of three Witchers. Geralt and Lambert are awake, murmuring quietly above him, but Eskel is still snoring away on Jaskier’s chest. Jaskier smiles dopily and strokes over Eskel’s scars and through his hair before tipping his head far enough back he can see Lambert and Geralt looking at him.

Geralt looks soft, eyes warm and crinkled around the edges. Lambert looks the same, though there’s a hunger in his gaze, too, and Jaskier’s stomach swoops.

“Morning,” he murmurs. Eskel snuffles against his chest.

“Morning,” Geralt says back. Lambert just grunts, still looking at Jaskier as if he might be a meal.

He shivers at the idea, and that finally wakes Eskel.

“Mm,” he hums right against Jaskier’s nipple, and it makes him shiver again. He feels the way Eskel grins before he swipes his tongue quickly across the hardening bud and then sits back.

Jaskier makes a discontent noise but doesn’t move to follow him, instead just turning his head to look.

“Breakfast,” he murmurs. “And then baths. After that….”

Lambert shifts and takes a breath in. Eskel’s eyes brighten.

“Alright,” he agrees, and clambers off the bed. “C’mon, then.” He looks at Geralt and Lambert pointedly. Jaskier chuckles and rolls off the bed himself. With the others gone, none of them bother with anything more than smallclothes, and they also don’t bother to cook. Instead, they eat a truly atrocious amount of bread and cheese, and then head down to the baths.

* * *

Their baths are shorter than normal. Geralt keeps throwing Jaskier knowing looks, smirking all the while, and Jaskier is smiling, too. Eskel is clearly impatient, but Lambert is something else entirely, excitement and anticipation practically rolling off of him in waves.

Finally, when Jaskier knows he can’t drag his own bath out any longer or he risks Lambert throwing a fit, he stands and says, “Come on. I just have to grab some more jewelry from my room.”

Lambert doesn’t exactly  _ scramble  _ out of the baths, but it’s a near thing. Jaskier snickers.

Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert go back to Geralt’s room while Jaskier goes on his own to grab the jewelry. He doesn’t have a whole lot, which means there’s a limited number of piercings he can give Lambert today; he makes a mental note to make sure he gets more for next winter. He already has a lot of plans of fun things to do with him.

“Eskel goes first,” he announces when he returns to Geralt’s room. He sees that all three of them have already rid themselves of their smallclothes. He decides to keep his on for the barest appearance of professionalism.

Lambert makes an upset sound, frowning, and Jaskier chuckles. He sets the jewelry down on his tray and goes over to him, grabbing his chin and pulling him into a kiss. “You’ll be too needy after, darling,” he murmurs. “I want to be able to take care of you immediately.”

“ _ Oh. _ ” Lambert kisses him again, hand sneaking down to Jaskier’s ass, and Jaskier grins against his mouth.

“Behave,” he murmurs. “Or I’ll have Geralt tie you up.”

The noise that tumbles from Lambert’s lips at that is half indignant and half pleading. Jaskier’s grin widens, and he pushes a hand through the Witcher’s hair, gripping tight and pulling to watch the way Lambert’s eyes roll. “That sounds like you want it, darling,” he teases.

“I – I want to watch,” he mutters.

“Mm. Want us to tie you up to let you watch while I pierce Eskel?”

Lambert nods, swallowing audibly, and Jaskier pets through his hair again. “Alright,” he agrees. “But we’ll blindfold you if you mouth off. Got it?”

Another nod, and Jaskier grins, kissing him again. This one is filthy, and Lambert whimpers into it, his grip on Jaskier’s ass tightening to pain. Jaskier just bites his lip in retaliation.

When they finally break apart, Jaskier looks over his shoulder to find Geralt and Eskel reclining on the bed, Eskel’s head in Geralt’s lap. “I need something to tie him with,” he says, and Geralt grins before carefully shifting out from under Eskel and going over to his dresser. He pulls out what looks like scarves of some kind. Jaskier can see they’re long and soft, so whatever they actually are doesn’t matter.

He tugs Lambert over to the side of the bed and then looks at Eskel, planning out how to set them up. He knows Geralt isn’t likely to keep his hands off while he’s working, so he needs to make sure he’ll have room.

“Here,” he finally says to Lambert, directing. “On your knees, please.”

Lambert drops to his knees easily, looking up at Jaskier for approval. Jaskier grins and leans down to kiss him again, soft and chaste, before taking the scarves from Geralt and stepping behind him. “Arms,” he says, and Lambert pushes his arms behind his back. Jaskier ties them, decently loosely; it’s tight enough to contain, but they all know Lambert could shred these scarves in seconds if he wanted to. This is mostly for the fun of it. He drops a kiss to the back of Lambert’s neck and grins when he shivers.

“Enough?” Jaskier asks, and Lambert makes a soft noise and shakes his head. Jaskier kisses the nape of his neck again and gathers more of the length to tie some more knots along Lambert’s arms, then looping down to cuff his ankles as well. It pulls him a little more back, so his chest is out, and Jaskier finds he likes the way it looks. He grabs at Lambert’s hair and tips his head back until he can kiss him upside down.

Lambert moans for it, straining for a moment like he might try to break out of the scarves before he relaxes. Jaskier pets over his throat as reward for the good behavior, and Lambert rumbles deep in his chest.

“Beautiful,” Jaskier murmurs. “Now, behave yourself. Or we won’t let you watch, and you’ll just have to  _ listen _ while I pierce Eskel. Hm?”

Lambert nods. “Y-yeah,” he breathes. “I’ll be good.”

Jaskier presses one final kiss to his lips and then stands to arrange Eskel and Geralt. He has Eskel sit up at the edge of the bed, feet planted on the floor like Geralt had been, and then directs Geralt to sit wherever he’d like as long as he’s not in the way.

Geralt smirks at him and immediately turns Eskel’s head to kiss him. Jaskier rolls his eyes and moves to making sure he’s got everything set to actually do the piercings, ink and needles and an extra candle for light if necessary. Once that’s all set, he washes his hands and looks over Eskel for a moment to cement his choices.

“Still good with me choosing?” he confirms.

Eskel breaks the kiss with Geralt to look at him, smiling. “Yeah,” he nods. “I trust you.”

Jaskier fights the urge to melt at that, and dips his brush into the ink. “Look straight at me, for a moment,” he says, and Eskel obeys. They both ignore Geralt making an indignant noise. “Thank you.”

He marks two dots on each of Eskel’s earlobes, checking that they’re straight and then having Eskel confirm it for him.

“Remember you can say no,” Jaskier says softly as he bends slightly to bring the brush next to Eskel’s chest. At the placement of the first dots on his nipples, Eskel sucks in a breath. When Jaskier straightens to look at him again, his pupils are blown wide and Geralt is chuckling. For him, that’s confirmation enough of Eskel’s consent. He smirks and marks the other nipple.

“Fuck,” Lambert mutters, and Jaskier glances to the side to see him half-lidded and cock swaying in front of him, red and leaking already. He smirks.

“Patience, Lambert,” he reminds. Lambert makes a soft, desperate noise but quiets down.

He goes to his knees for the next mark, and Eskel sucks in another breath. Jaskier looks up to find that he and Geralt are kissing again, a little sloppy as Eskel keeps trying to turn to watch Jaskier. He smirks again and pets up Eskel’s thigh just to see him shiver before he tamps down on the reaction and stills.

After a moment of consideration, Jaskier decides officially between two different kinds of piercings and makes the marks on Eskel’s cock. A little off center just to make sure it’ll sit right, and Eskel shivers again when he backs off after checking the placement.

Marks finished, he stands and puts the brush and ink aside, then washes his hands again. He turns back to find that Eskel and Geralt are kissing properly now, Eskel’s torso twisted just slightly and Geralt’s palm resting possessively over his throat. Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“I’ll start from the bottom, then,” he says, teasing. “Since you two can’t behave yourselves.”

Geralt pulls back for a moment to wink at Jaskier and then dives back into the kiss. Lambert makes a broken noise and Jaskier hears the scarves shift a bit.

“Alright, Lambert?” he asks as he kneels back in front of Eskel with the needle and jewelry in his hands.

Lambert pants for a moment and then nods. “Just –  _ fuck, _ ” he mutters. “Want.”

“I know, darling. Remember what I told you, though.”

“No mouthing off or I’ll get blindfolded,” Lambert repeats breathily. “Fuck, I know.”

Jaskier smiles. “Good.”

He turns back to his task, ignoring the arousing, slick sounds of Eskel and Geralt making out above him. Eskel shifts his legs at Jaskier’s gentle direction, and then Jaskier is making sure his hands and needle are steady. Eskel is so thoroughly distracted he doesn’t even have to worry about him being ready for it. In the space of a breath, the needle is in and through, and then the jewelry almost immediately after.

“Sweet  _ fuck, _ ” Eskel groans, tearing back from Geralt’s mouth. “Fuck.”

“You okay?” Jaskier asks. Eskel nods, eyes squeezed shut, and takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“Yeah,” he answers. “It’s just – a lot. I’m fine.”

“If you’re sure.” Jaskier pets over his thigh lightly, and Eskel shivers but nods again. “Okay. Unfortunately, Geralt, you’re going to have to behave yourself for the next few.”

“Define ‘behave myself’,” Geralt says. He’s smirking, eyes twinkling, and Jaskier can’t help but lean forward and kiss him.

“Don’t get in my way and keep Eskel still,” he instructs. Geralt nods after stealing another kiss, and moves across the bed for a moment. Jaskier tunes him out while he grabs another needle as well as the jewelry for Eskel’s nipples, and situates him where he can see best. It’s early enough in the day still that he doesn’t think he’ll need the candle to see, which is nice.

Lambert makes a whining noise. Jaskier turns to him with an eyebrow cocked, but apparently it doesn’t remind Lambert, because he snarls out, “Hurry the fuck up, would you?”

“Lambert,” Jaskier says, reprimanding, but before he can say – or do – anything more, Geralt is up and off the bed to deal with it.

Lambert makes a pleading noise, but Geralt just chuckles. “You knew the rules,” he says, and ties another scarf around Lambert’s eyes. He arranges it carefully so that there’s no way Lambert can see, and Lambert makes a defeated little sound, slumping. Jaskier chuckles, as well.

“I’ll get to you eventually,” Jaskier says. “Promise.”

Lambert murmurs something too quiet for Jaskier to hear, but Geralt clearly catches it. He grips Lambert’s hair tightly and pulls him back, making Lambert give a startled moan. “Careful,” Geralt says, low but commanding. “Or you’ll have to wait even longer.” He seals that threat with a sharp bite to Lambert’s throat, and Lambert makes a low, wanting noise.

Eskel gasps loudly when Jaskier pierces his first nipple; Jaskier can’t be sure if it’s for Lambert’s benefit (or torture, more like) that he makes the noise, but when Jaskier looks up to him he does look like he’s in pain.

“Are you alright?” Jaskier asks.

“Yeah,” Eskel pants. “Just – stings. More than the other.”

Jaskier hums and pets around his nipple softly, hoping the touch will distract from that sting a little. “Some people end up more sensitive,” he says. “Seems like you might, if that stings so much.”

“Fuck,” Eskel mutters, but his pupils are wide and dark and he’s chewing his lip. Jaskier grins.

He’s as quick as possible with the next, though Eskel still makes a harsh little noise. In response to the sound of it, Lambert whines. Jaskier makes sure the jewelry is secure and then stands to grab another needle and the ear jewelry.

He drops a kiss on Eskel’s scarred cheek, and allows the kiss Eskel turns to plant on his mouth when he comes back. It’s soft but not chaste, and Jaskier ignores the heat that floods his belly.

“Remember, you have to be careful. No  _ strenuous activities, _ ” he says when the kiss breaks, looking at Geralt with a smirk, “for probably a week. Maybe a little less. Unless you decide to waste a Swallow potion on it.”

Eskel shrugs. “We’ll see,” he says, glancing at Geralt as well. Jaskier rolls his eyes and sets to doing the ear piercings.

Once he’s finished, he kisses Eskel, sweet and quick, and then hands a clean rag and the cleaning solution to Geralt. “I’ll let you handle this,” he says, and Geralt takes them with a nod.

“C’mere, Eskel,” he rumbles, and Eskel makes a wanting noise before carefully climbing back onto the bed and toward Geralt.

Jaskier leaves them to it and goes over to Lambert. He’s gone nearly soft, now, probably intentional considering everything. He touches the Witcher’s shoulder softly.

“Will you be able to behave long enough to let me get all of your piercings done, darling?”

Lambert whimpers and nods frantically. “I will, I swear, I’m sorry,  _ please. _ ”

“Oh love,” Jaskier crouches in front of him and pulls him into a kiss, forcing it slow and deep. Lambert whimpers again, right into his mouth, struggling gently against his bonds. He’s clearly faking it, really, and they both know it, but Jaskier lets him believe in the fantasy. “You’re so good, when you want to be. C’mon. Let’s get you up on the bed so I can keep my promise, hm?”

“Please.”

Jaskier undoes the scarves around his arms and ankles first, and then slowly removes the blindfold. Lambert blinks up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes, pupils blown, and Jaskier can’t resist yet another kiss.

He helps Lambert to his feet and then over to the bed, less because the Witcher needs it and more because he wants to touch him. Lambert lets him, then sits down on the bed, exactly like he watched Eskel do it. Jaskier pets through his hair in reward, then goes to wash his hands and grab the ink and brush again.

“So,” he begins, “I, unfortunately, don’t have much more jewelry, so I won’t be able to give you  _ everything. _ ” He returns to stand in front of Lambert. “I’m going to give you everything I can right now, and then I’ll bring more next winter. That sound good to you?”

Lambert bites his lip, clearly a little bit disappointed, but nods. Jaskier kisses his temple, then starts on his marks.

Ears are first, one in each earlobe and then another on his right, along the shell of it. Then his nipples; Lambert bites his lip again, so hard it blanches white, and Jaskier grins. He checks and then double-checks the evenness of those, then goes to his knees to mark Lambert’s navel.

Once that is done, he considers for a moment. He looks over and recounts his remaining jewelry, humming, and then decides, setting aside the ink and brush for a second to grab Lambert’s hand. “Need your help here,” he explains. “For when I make the marks and when I pierce.”

“Alright,” Lambert says, and lets Jaskier direct his hand. He has the Witcher grab his own cock at the head and then hold it up, not quite against his belly but nearly.

“Like that,” Jaskier instructs. Lambert makes a weak noise and very obviously begins to focus on his breathing and heart rate. Jaskier grins and grabs the ink and brush again to make the little trail of marks along the bottom of Lambert’s dick, ignoring the soft hiss Lambert gives at the feeling.

With that finished, he washes his hands again and grabs the remaining needles and jewelry. “I’ll start bottom-up,” Jaskier grins, “since you’ll likely be hard – whether you want to be or not – by the time I’m done.”

“Fuck you,” Lambert mutters, with no heat in his voice.

“Maybe once I’m done with this,” Jaskier says. Lambert sucks in a sudden breath, eyes going wide, and Jaskier chuckles. “Like that idea, darling? Pretty sure it’ll hurt to get hard immediately after I pierce you.”

Lambert just makes a quiet, bitten-off noise, and closes his eyes.

Jaskier pets his thigh, and then leans forward. This piercing is a little more delicate, easier to fuck up, so he murmurs, “Hold very still, darling.”

Lambert huffs and then goes stone-still, only shifting when his chest rises a little to breathe.

“Good, thank you.”

Jaskier triple-checks that he’s in the right place and then shoves the needle through, jewelry in his palm so he can slide it through immediately after. Lambert breathes out harshly, but doesn’t move. He does it another two times, slightly further down with each, and by the time he’s finished, jewelry secured, Lambert is properly panting, arms trembling where he’s still trying so hard to hold still.

“You can move, love, if you need to,” Jaskier says, half-order, and Lambert heaves in a breath only to let it out on a weak, shivery moan. His shoulders slump and he lets go of his cock to fist his hands in the sheets of the bed. Jaskier pets over his thighs, up to his ribs and back down. “Are you okay, darling?”

Lambert laughs, breathy, and nods. “Fine,” he says. “Just – fuck, that’s a lot.”

“Do you want me to stop there?”

“Fuck no.” He shakes his head, eyes opening halfway; he still looks insanely turned on, pupils wide and eyes hazy. “Gods, I want more, it’s just –  _ a lot. _ ”

Jaskier nods and pets him again. “Alright,” he agrees. “On we go, then.”

The belly button piercing goes quickly. Lambert pants a little when it’s done, but nods when Jaskier looks at him to confirm his comfort.

He grins at the way Lambert’s breathing hitches when he touches the Witcher’s chest. Piercing his nipples takes a moment longer, just because he has to pause between the first and second for Lambert to shiver and whimper. He pets through the Witcher’s hair and hums softly at him, murmuring sweet nonsense in his ear.

“Almost done,” Jaskier says softly. “And then I’ll take care of you, darling.”

Lambert heaves in several breaths, then nods, and stills once more. Jaskier goes as quickly as he can on his ears. Once the jewelry is in, Lambert slumps again, breathing hard, and Jaskier cups a hand around his throat, fingers on his jaw tipping his face up. He leans down and kisses him, soft and sweet at first, until Lambert’s hand comes up to tug at his hair.

“Please,” Lambert murmurs. “Please, I – ”

“What do you want?” Jaskier asks, eyes flicking to Geralt and Eskel for a moment. Geralt is sitting up against the headboard, Eskel laying down in the vee of his legs, head resting on Geralt’s thigh and hip while he dozes. Jaskier smiles at the domestic little scene, then turns back to Lambert. “Tell me, love.”

“Fuck me,” Lambert mumbles, pressing his face into Jaskier’s shoulder. “Please.”

“Of course.”

Jaskier gentles him up onto the bed, then shucks his smallclothes to follow him up, settling between his spread legs. He studies the way Lambert’s cock is slowly hardening, the little shocked noises he’s letting out with each twitch. “How do you feel?”

“Hurts,” Lambert says. “Fucking – gods, Jaskier, feels fucking good.”

Jaskier chuckles, running his palms up Lambert’s legs from calf to hip, then back down to his inner thighs to push him a little more open. “Good,” he says. “You  _ look _ good.”

And he does, even with the piercings new and a little swollen red. The flashes of the jewelry each time he shifts, paired with the wanton sprawl of his limbs and the desperate look on his face, have Jaskier practically drooling for it already.

Geralt gets his attention with a wave and hands him a little bottle of oil. Jaskier grins and leans over Lambert’s bent knee to kiss him, reveling in the quiet moans it gets out of Lambert and Eskel both. Geralt keeps him in the kiss for a long, drawn-out moment, until Lambert starts to squirm, and then lets him go with a little chuckle.

“Tease,” Jaskier murmurs, but turns back to Lambert.

“You’re one to talk, bard,” Lambert sasses. It’s weak and sounds more fond than anything.

Jaskier just grins wider and leans carefully over him to kiss at his throat, just soft, open-mouthed presses at first, and then sharp and biting on his second pass. Lambert is practically vibrating, making quiet little noises with each movement.

He’s careful not to put pressure on any of the new piercings, but there’s no avoiding small brushes; considering how Lambert whimpers and arches closer, though, he thinks that’s just fine. After one more trail of biting kisses, he leans back and pushes Lambert’s legs up a little more, giving himself more room to work. It has the added bonus of making Lambert whine some more.

“Gods, Lambert, look at you. Finally covered in marks I gave you.” Jaskier’s voice is rougher than even he expected, and all three of his Witchers make quiet sounds when they hear it. He chuckles and uncorks the bottle in his hands, pouring some oil over his fingers before corking it and handing it back over to Geralt. “Still kind of sad they can’t be bruises, but this is very nice, too. And  _ next  _ winter – ” he interrupts his little speech to sink one finger into Lambert, grinning when he jerks and moans, “ – next winter, I’m going to give you more. I have all kinds of ideas for you, darling, and I can’t wait to see you covered in me.”

“Fuck,  _ fuck, _ Jaskier, please,” Lambert pants, eyes rolling as he tries to ride Jaskier’s single finger. Jaskier hums and sinks a second finger inside him, heedless of the tight space, and Lambert  _ keens. _ “ _ Jaskier, _ yes, please,  _ please. _ ”

Jaskier continues with two fingers, twisting and scissoring them the way he knows Lambert likes. His other hand comes up to pet over the head of Lambert’s cock, finally all the way hard and leaking; he adjusts where it lays slightly so there’s less risk of getting precome on his belly button piercing.

Not that he’s not going to clean everything thoroughly once they’re done, of course, but still.

Lambert makes that same keening noise but breathier, and Jaskier smiles, circling a thumb around the head and then trailing the slick along the base of him. He cups Lambert’s balls and rolls them, still studiously fingering him open, and Lambert’s back to nearly vibrating, mouth open and eyes squeezed shut. He’s making tiny little noises, and Jaskier would call them pitiful except they’re making his cock throb.

He’s barely gotten a third finger into Lambert before the Witcher is begging again. “Fuck,  _ Jaskier,  _ please, please, please – want –  _ please, _ fuck me,” he gasps, lashes fluttering as he tries his best to look at Jaskier straight on. Jaskier looks to where he’s got his fingers knuckle-deep into Lambert’s ass and considers for a moment.

“Hm.” He leans up, chest brushing lightly against the nipple piercings and making Lambert whimper. “You really think you’re ready, or do you  _ want _ it to hurt a little?”

“ _ Jaskier. _ ”

“Okay, okay,” Jaskier surrenders, leaning back and taking his fingers with him. Lambert makes a small, mournful sound, but cuts it off in a sharp gasp when Jaskier replaces them with the head of his cock. “Tell me when you’re going to come, love.”

“Not – not gonna  _ last, _ ” Lambert wheezes, all the breath gone out of his voice as Jaskier slowly sinks inside him.

He’s vice-tight and fever-hot, and Jaskier grits his teeth against the urge to rut. “That’s fine, darling,  _ fuck, _ you feel so godsdamned good.” Petting Lambert's hip, he concentrates entirely on working his cock inside of the Witcher  _ slowly, _ enough that it’s probably too slow, but if Lambert isn’t going to last long, Jaskier isn’t either. “Fuck,  _ fuck,  _ Lambert.”

Lambert makes a garbled noise that might have been Jaskier’s name, tilting his hips so Jaskier sinks just a little bit deeper inside him, and Jaskier’s control snaps like a string.

“ _ Gods, _ darling.”

He snaps his hips, in-out-in-out, pace hard but slow. Lambert wails, hands scrabbling against the sheets for something to hold onto as his cock blurts out precome on every in thrust; Jaskier looks to the side to see that one of his hands has found Geralt’s thigh, digging in hard enough to leave welts. Geralt’s eyes are big and dark when Jaskier meets them, and he leans toward him as much as he can. Geralt shifts, too, so they can kiss again. Lambert and Eskel both moan at that.

Geralt pulls away from their kiss with a sharp gasp. Jaskier looks down to see that Eskel has his cock in his mouth, sucking softly at the head with his eyes closed in bliss.

“Oh, fuck,” Jaskier gasps, and his rhythm is absolutely fucked, but Lambert is still whining and crying out with each thrust. He reaches down and massages at the Witcher’s balls, petting the thin skin and rubbing at the base of his cock, up to just before the last piercing and then down again.

Lambert goes suddenly silent and tense and still; Jaskier overbalances and has to catch himself on his elbows above him. “Gonna come, darling, make a mess of yourself? Just from my cock, too, I’ve  _ barely  _ touched you.”

“ _ Jaskier,  _ fuck, fuck – I’m –  _ oh gods fuck me  _ – ”

Jaskier shoves a hand between them, cupping over the head of Lambert’s cock just in time to catch the pulses of his orgasm. The shuddering and clenching of his body sends Jaskier over with him, and Jaskier drops his forehead on Lambert's shoulder with a broken whimper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> piercings for eskel are one in each earlobe, nipples, and a slightly modified prince albert. lambert's are one in each earlobe, a helix, bellybutton, and a frenum ladder.
> 
> next up: family bonding!!! we get real gay here.


	21. chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The winter marches on, both exactly the same and vastly different to every winter that Jaskier has spent at Kaer Morhen previously._
> 
> Jaskier watches Ciri bond with her new family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iiiiiit's wednesday my dudes and i have a job now! which, i have actually had this job for like two and a half weeks but i can't remember if i've mentioned it. so like. anyway.
> 
> not a lot to say about this one except that i really hope you'd brushed your teeth because this is cavity-inducing.

The winter marches on, both exactly the same and vastly different to every winter that Jaskier has spent at Kaer Morhen previously.

His favorite part, he finds, becomes watching Ciri bond with everyone else.

Of course, she’s already rather fond of him and Coën – but here, it’s different. In Cintra, they were her tutor and bodyguard, respectively, and while they both befriended her, there was always a barrier of professionalism there. Now, they’re not just teacher or bodyguard, they’re family.

Jaskier is, for all intents and purposes, a  _ parent _ to her now, considering his relationship with Geralt. And isn’t that a mildly terrifying thought. Coën, though, seems to have shifted into a more brotherly relationship with her, though an incredibly protective one.

Coën is her main trainer. He teaches her to wield a sword, a dagger, a crossbow, and a myriad of other weapons Jaskier couldn’t properly name if someone paid him. He also teaches her the basics of survival; fires, camping, hunting, and everything else. There’s a part of Jaskier that’s almost worried Geralt feels left out, but no animosity ever appears between him and Coën.

Jaskier, for his part, becomes Ciri’s official tutor for everything that isn’t weaponry, survival, magic, or other Witcher-specific things. They continue with music, obviously, but he also teaches her other art forms, grammar, math, and everything else his education prepared him with. She’s a quick learner, and well-educated already, so really they spend a lot of time discussing poetry and doing puzzles. (He also does a fair bit of teaching her how to wheedle things she needs or wants out of people, and how to make threats effective, but they agree to keep that a secret from Geralt and Vesemir.)

But if seeing the way his relationship with Ciri has changed to become closer, and Coën’s as well, makes something glow in his chest, well. Seeing the way she starts to bond with the others turns that glow into a bonfire.

* * *

The first he notices is Lambert.

It’s late, and Ciri should really be in bed, but her nightmares have been worse lately. They’ve all been quietly allowing her to stay up until she’s too exhausted to avoid sleep – because it makes the nightmares more bearable, if not nonexistent. Maybe not healthy for a long period of time, but the best they can do for now.

So, since she’s up, and Eskel has long decided that Lambert isn’t worth the effort of playing against, he sits down and hands her some cards.

“What’s this?” Ciri asks, blinking at the stack of cards in her hand. They’re a little beat up from use but very well-kept besides. Jaskier grins and settles more comfortably into his seat to watch this unfold.

“Gwent cards. Heard of it?” Lambert replies.

Ciri shrugs. “A bit,” she says, and starts looking through the stack in her hand. “Grandmother said it was a… _ low  _ form of entertainment. Meant for taverns and commoners and – uh….”

“Bastards? Lowlifes?  _ Witchers? _ ” Lambert suggests all of them with a bright smile on his face.

Ciri laughs. “Well, yeah,” she nods. “Not those words specifically, of course, but – that’s what she meant, yes.”

Lambert shrugs. “It can be,” he says. “But, it can also be useful. Even for queens and princesses.”

Ciri’s face screws up a bit – she’s never much liked being called  _ princess, _ even before. Jaskier knows that now it’s an unpleasant reminder of what she never quite wanted, but misses anyway. “Really?” she asks, instead of reprimanding Lambert for the title.

“Really,” Lambert nods. “Here, I’ll show you.”

He tugs her up and over to the table they usually sit at to play any games. She sits across from him, and he sets to explaining all of the many ins and outs of Gwent. Jaskier knows enough about the game that he mostly tunes that out, and instead just focuses on the way they interact.

Lambert is good with Ciri.

Jaskier will never, ever tell him that, for fear that Lambert would toss him in a snowbank for the suggestion that he’d be a good role model for anyone.

At one point, Ciri’s eyes light up. “It’s just strategy!” she crows. “It’s – a battle. Like any other, just with people on cards and monsters instead of armies.”

Lambert beams right back at her. “Exactly,” he says, and Jaskier can tell from the pride in his voice that he’d held that information back specifically so Ciri could puzzle it out. That warm feeling in his chest intensifies. “It’s strategy. Which means it can be a  _ very  _ useful game for just about anyone to know.”

Ciri nods enthusiastically. “Yeah,” she agrees. “Okay, go over the rest with me again.”

Lambert grins even wider and does just that.

Jaskier falls asleep listening to him teach Ciri the game, and Ciri’s excited cheering as she takes to it like a duck to water.

He thinks Ciri couldn’t have asked for a better uncle.

(Lambert also teaches Ciri how to climb walls and make bombs, though, so maybe Jaskier gave him too much credit too soon.)

* * *

After that, Jaskier starts paying a little more attention, and manages to catch the ways Ciri and Eskel are connecting next.

It surprises him a little that it’s with magic. But then of course, he thinks about it, and really, it shouldn’t have surprised him at all. Eskel has always been the best with Signs, and over the years Jaskier has seen the way he has more control, can do more things, than any of the other Wolves. Better, in fact, than even Coën, and Jaskier knows the Griffins specialized in magic.

They’ve discussed Ciri’s inherent magic. They all know it’s there; the Witchers’ medallions detect it, of course, but more than that, it’s  _ visible. _ When Ciri is upset she…well, glows. And that earth-shattering scream from the night she and Coën arrived has returned a handful of times, when the nightmares get really bad.

She even levitates, sometimes, when she’s screaming, and Jaskier knows that worries Geralt. It worries him, too, of course – he just doesn’t know nearly as much about magic as the Witchers do. But he remembers Pavetta, and the destruction she wrought before Geralt and Mousesack could interrupt her.

Geralt has already decided that they need to contact Yennefer, see if she would be willing to help Ciri, but that can’t be done until spring. So, for now, they try to rein her in as much as possible, and Eskel is teaching her the Signs.

It’s the first time Jaskier has seen Eskel  _ teaching, _ and watching it, it takes a lot of willpower not to interrupt entirely so he can kiss the Witcher. He manages to control himself, though, and sits at the back of the courtyard to observe.

“So it’ll take a bit for you to figure out the hand shapes,” Eskel explains, down on one knee to put him more level with Ciri.

“Why?”

“The mutations make it easier for our muscles and joints to move freely,” he answers. “You don’t have those mutations, and you  _ won’t, _ so it’ll be a lot of practice and stretching to get there.”

“Huh,” Ciri says, and then looks at her hands. “So, it’ll be a while before I can actually use the magic?”

Eskel shrugs. “It might be,” he says. “But your magic is already stronger than most Witchers. Stronger, certainly, than any I’ve met. The mutations, part of them, is to embed chaos into us. So even if there was no innate magic before the Trials, there is that connection after them. If there  _ was  _ innate magic, it strengthens that.”

“Like you,” Ciri says. “Because your Signs are stronger.”

Eskel nods. “Exactly. According to my teachers at the time, if anyone had noticed before the Trials, I could have gone to Ban Ard instead.”

Ciri’s face screws up. “Grandmother never liked mages,” she says, and Eskel snorts. Jaskier laughs, too, muffling the sound with his hand. He’s sure Eskel knows he’s here, but Ciri likely doesn’t, and he doesn’t want to distract her from the lesson.

“Well, there’s not a lot of mages that are terribly likable, so I can understand her hesitance,” Eskel says. Jaskier thinks that’s a wonderfully polite way to explain how most mages are power-hungry pricks. There are exceptions, of course – Yennefer and Triss, and Kiera on her good days, for example – but Jaskier has definitely met more evil mages than he’s ever met good.

“What about Yennefer?” Ciri asks, and there’s a pause where both Jaskier  _ and _ Eskel blink.

He doesn’t recall anyone ever telling Ciri about Yennefer. At the very least, not by name.

Ciri fidgets. “I – am I not supposed to….”

Eskel puts a hand on her shoulder, clearly meant to be comforting. “No,” he says. “I just didn’t know you knew anything about Yen.”

“I don’t,” Ciri says. “It’s just that – she’s in my dreams, sometimes. Like Geralt is.”

“…huh,” Eskel murmurs. “Well. Alright. Yennefer is a mage, you’re right, and she is one of the good ones – though, not always, to be totally honest with you.”

_ She’s been getting better, _ Jaskier thinks, but he does have to agree that no, Yennefer isn’t always the best sorceress when it comes to morality. She’s usually trying to do the right thing, but her methods can be questionable at best.

“Will I get to meet her?” Ciri asks, and her voice is quiet. Timid. Not the kind of tone she usually takes.

“Maybe,” Eskel says gently. “When the snow thaws and we can contact her, we want her to teach you, if she’s willing.”

“Will she be? Willing?”

“I…can’t answer that for sure,” Eskel says, and at that, his eyes flick to Jaskier. Confirmation that he’s aware of Jaskier’s presence, and a plea for help.

“Geralt and Yennefer had a disagreement,” he chimes in. Ciri jumps, but turns to face him.

“Disagreement?”

“It’s between them,” he says, firmly. “Geralt needs to speak to her, and they need to make up, if possible. If she doesn’t want to teach you, darling, I promise it would be because of  _ that, _ not you.”

Ciri chews her lip for a moment, but nods. “Alright,” she says, then turns back to Eskel. “So. Signs. You think I could use the magic without the perfect hand movement?”

Eskel shrugs. “It’s possible, but I don’t know for sure. Let’s see how much you can control, and then work on the hand shapes first, okay?”

“Alright.”

Possible crisis averted, Jaskier relaxes back against the wall he’s sitting at and watches as Eskel walks Ciri through some basic concepts about magic. The warm feeling in his chest returns at the way Ciri takes to him, the gentle banter they share.

Eskel is an even better uncle, he thinks. And he’s not nearly as likely to teach Ciri illicit things.

At least, not until she’s much, much older. (Jaskier does know about that night with the succubus, thank you very much.)

* * *

Watching Ciri and Geralt is…different than with the others.

Each one of them has their  _ thing  _ with Ciri – Gwent and misbehavior is Lambert, magic is Eskel, fighting and weapons are Coën, and Jaskier covers most everything else. And Geralt does, too, technically – he and Ciri take care of Roach together.

It’s wonderful to watch, when he gets the chance. Geralt has always been much softer around horses, much easier to read and more emotional; with Ciri there it’s vastly different in a very good way. He’s teaching her how to care for horses, things she does know but not in depth and things she doesn’t know at all. And Ciri loves Roach, loves the other horses too, Scorpion and Pie and the cobs, but…. 

But after a bit of time observing when he can, Jaskier realizes that despite the time spent with the horses, it seems like Geralt doesn’t  _ want _ them to have a specific thing. Like he doesn’t want Ciri to associate him with just teaching her animal care. He’s just….

He’s just trying to be a father.

It’s almost unbearably cute.

One day, Geralt tries to teach Ciri to bake. It’s a mess, because Geralt barely knows how to bake, but Jaskier can’t call the day a failure. Not when Geralt and Ciri are both laughing and smiling like that, not when Ciri gives Geralt a long, tight hug before she goes with Coën to the courtyard.

Another day, he watches as Geralt carefully teaches Ciri some very basic metalworking. Nothing intensive, not enough to repair a sword like Jaskier knows Geralt can. But basics, and little things, and it isn’t until they finish with their project that Jaskier realizes what Ciri has been doing.

It’s  _ jewelry.  _ She’s made a little charm, and she presents it to Geralt like any child would present a craft to their parent. Jaskier sneaks out to let them have a moment when he sees the tears in Geralt’s eyes, but feels that warm glow for the rest of the day regardless.

Of course, it’s not all good. There are days when Ciri is sensitive and upset, and wants nothing to do with Geralt. There are days when they yell, and when Ciri locks herself in her room and refuses to come out for anything except food. When she wakes early and cares for Roach without Geralt. And Jaskier can see the way those days wear on Geralt, how upset it makes him when Ciri won’t look at him or speak to him.

But despite that, they have good days. And more, Jaskier sees how  _ hard _ Geralt is trying. He sees the way Geralt gives Ciri space, but is immediately there when she asks for him. He sees the way Geralt will sit by her door at night, sometimes  _ all night, _ when the nightmares have been bad.

Ciri sees it, too, Jaskier knows. Both because the bad days get less frequent, and often less harrowing. And, really, because she tells him.

“He really wants to make up for it, doesn’t he?” she asks, quietly, while Jaskier is gathering the books he’ll need for their lesson. He stops, looking at a shelf, and considers for a moment.

“Yes,” he finally agrees. “But that’s not all. He’s not just trying to repay a debt.”

Ciri is nodding when he looks at her. “I know,” she says. “I just didn’t expect….”

Jaskier waits, setting the books down on the table and organizing them, but nothing more comes. “You didn’t expect what?”

Ciri fidgets a little. “He’s so  _ stoic  _ all the time. Before – before he apologized, I thought maybe it was my fault. That he didn’t like me, or….”

Jaskier chuckles and reaches out to pat her hand. “I promise you, it’s not you,” he says. “Geralt is naturally a quiet man. It took years for him to even admit we were friends.”

“But does he admit it? Now, that you’re…more?”

Jaskier pretends the question doesn’t make him flush. “Not really,” he says honestly. “It’s just not in his nature to be very talkative, or to express his feelings. Not in words, at least.”

Ciri nods. “He – he makes things. And he cooks, or…he brought me books, the other day. Poetry. I’ve already read them, but I couldn’t…. I didn’t tell him that.” She looks a little sheepish, and Jaskier turns the patting her hand into holding it tightly, an attempt to alleviate the squeezing feeling in his chest.

“Exactly,” he says. “He’s a man of action, not words like me.”

“…I like him,” Ciri murmurs, almost like it’s a secret. “I…feel bad that I do.”

Jaskier frowns. “Why, darling?”

Ciri shrugs one shoulder, looking at the table where their hands are entwined. “Grandmother didn’t like him. And I told him I didn’t want him to come for me, and I don’t think it would have been good if he had, but….”

“But you still wonder what it would have been like if he had?”

She nods.

“That’s okay, Ciri,” he assures her. “It really is. He wouldn’t hold it against you, I promise. As for your grandmother not liking him, well – she never really got to know him. After the banquet, he disappeared and never returned. And she was too afraid that he’d take you from her.”

Ciri sighs, but after a moment, nods. “Okay,” she says. “What are we doing today?” She pulls her hand away from his to prod at the books. He smiles and sets into the lesson.

* * *

While seeing the way Ciri deals with all of them individually is wonderful, Jaskier finds the times with all of them together even better.

That first night they all piled in front of the hearth to comfort her comes to mind. They’ve done that a few times now, not always in front of the main hearth – once in the courtyard, and a few in her bedroom, once in Jaskier’s. But more than that, it’s the comfortable interactions and the  _ banter _ that make him grin like a lunatic.

Case in point – Lambert tends to make poor decisions.

Jaskier sees him creeping up on Ciri, and knows it won’t end well. But Lambert is a hands-on learner, so Jaskier crosses his arms and keeps his mouth shut, shaking his head when Coën and Geralt both quirk their brows at him.

Lambert shouts and grabs at Ciri’s shoulders, but she’s got fast reflexes for a noble girl of twelve and ducks as soon as she hears the shout. It makes Lambert miss the grip, and means when Ciri turns around and kicks in righteous fury, she nails Lambert dead on.

Right between his legs.

And it was a  _ hard  _ kick, with a very nice pair of hard leather boots they’d found for her to wear.

There’s a moment's pause between her kick and the reaction, the whole room holding their breath, and then everyone except for Lambert bursts into uncontrollable laughter. Lambert, for his part, collapses to the ground with a weak, pained groan.

Jaskier remembers a few days ago, when Lambert had been snarky at dinner, and Ciri had threatened to kick him. He snorts some more at realizing that Lambert has just had the exact same thought. The Witcher groans again but waves a hand in the air.

“I deserved that,” he announces.

“Damn right you did!” Ciri says, shrill, though there’s still laughter in her tone.

“Language,” Coën scolds.

Ciri just sticks her tongue out at him.

“D’you want me to kiss it better, Lambert?” Jaskier teases, and Lambert makes a noise that’s somewhere between want and embarrassment at the same time that Ciri frowns and says, “ _ Gross, _ ” with no small amount of revolt (despite her remaining smile).

Eskel wanders in. “Did Ciri do that?” he asks, pointing at Lambert on the ground. At the general murmur of assent, he grins and claps Ciri on the back. “Good girl,” he praises, and there’s another round of laughter as Ciri flushes with pride.

“Terrible influences,” Coën mutters, but he’s grinning just as much as the rest of them. Jaskier shoves him playfully, and receives a die tossed at his head in response.

* * *

And of course, if Jaskier talks about poor decisions, he has to mention that his lessons on threatening people and general misbehavior are, eventually, discovered.

Geralt is surprisingly not disappointed, though he gives Jaskier a look that clearly reads  _ really? _ Jaskier just blows a raspberry at him, which likely just confirms Geralt’s thoughts on his maturity.

Vesemir rolls his eyes and clearly disapproves, but stays mum on the subject.

Coën, Eskel, and Lambert decide to sit in on one of the lessons. Lambert is legitimately taking notes, despite Eskel’s ribbing, and Coën is just there to ensure that Ciri isn’t corrupted.

What a concept.

“Corrupted?” Jaskier asks, indignant. “Coën, she came to us like this. I have had no hand in  _ corrupting _ her. I’m just teaching her valuable life skills.”

“Like threatening civilians,” Eskel mutters, and Jaskier throws an empty inkpot at him. He catches it flawlessly, because of course he does, the bastard. Jaskier levels him with a glare and gets a cheeky smirk in reply.

“As I was saying, valuable life skills.”

“I’ve known you since I was two,” Ciri pipes up. “If I’ve been corrupted, you probably had something to do with it.”

Jaskier makes another indignant noise, though this one is ruined by the chuckle he has to muffle. “Excuse me,” he says. “I thought you were on my side!”

Ciri just shrugs, smirking, and leans back in her seat. Jaskier balls up a scrap of parchment to throw at her. She doesn’t catch it like Eskel, but does dodge it so it bounces harmlessly to the floor.

“Rude,” Jaskier huffs, and then turns back to Coën. “These are still valuable skills,” he insists.

Coën rolls his eyes and waves a hand. “Whatever you say, Jaskier. Get on with it.”

He throws another scrap of paper that misses by a mile and then does just that. And despite what Eskel and Lambert say later, he was  _ not  _ pouting while he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D comments fuel me through this arduous job training process. (and...just in general, tbh....)
> 
> i love y'all!


	22. chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It isn’t rare that Jaskier finds Vesemir in the library._
> 
> _But it isn’t exactly a typical day when he finds Vesemir wandering the shelves, petting over the spines of books, and looking melancholy._
> 
> Jaskier learns some things about Kaer Morhen and Vesemir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the whump stick is back! :D i _did_ say everyone would get a turn, after all.
> 
> warning for mentions of child death and discussion of the Inherent Tragedy of Witchers (i.e. training, trials, and the fall of kaer morhen).

It isn’t rare that Jaskier finds Vesemir in the library.

But it isn’t exactly a typical day when he finds Vesemir wandering the shelves, petting over the spines of books, and looking melancholy.

Jaskier wonders if he’s thinking the same way Coën is, today – the Witcher had been withdrawn at breakfast, and when Jaskier cornered him to ask, had told him he’d just been thinking of Kaer Seren. His home keep, destroyed by an avalanche, much like the one that had shaken Kaer Morhen the night previous.

“Vesemir?” he asks, cautious.

The elder Witcher  _ jumps, _ and that cements the fact that he’s not alright.

“Vesemir, what’s wrong?”

For a moment, all Vesemir does is sigh and stare at the books in front of him. Then, he turns to Jaskier. His eyes are haunted, the frown he’s wearing practically etched into his sagging skin, and Jaskier’s heart twists.

“I’m just thinking, bard,” he answers quietly, and turns away again.

“About what?”

Another sigh. “Kaer Seren,” he answers. So Jaskier’s first assumption was right; the easy destruction of the Griffin School weighs on Vesemir like it does Coën. “And other things.”

Maybe not  _ exactly  _ right, then. “Vesemir, you can talk to me.” It’s a bit odd; this situation feels reversed, like Jaskier is overstepping where he shouldn’t. Vesemir is such a fatherly figure, strong and steady, that it feels odd to be extending comfort to him, instead of the other way around.

That doesn’t make Jaskier’s offer any less sincere, of course.

“Anniversaries aren’t always cause for celebration,” is Vesemir’s eventual answer, and Jaskier frowns.

It’s a true statement and Jaskier knows it is, but there’s a weight behind Vesemir’s words, something Jaskier can’t parse. “I’m sorry?” he asks.

Vesemir looks at him again, gaze sharper now. He’s considering something, though Jaskier couldn’t answer  _ what _ he might be considering; he’s just looking at Jaskier. At this point, the elder Witcher knows about all there is to know about Jaskier.

“I want to show you something. Come with me?”

Jaskier blinks. “Of course.”

* * *

He follows behind Vesemir as the elder Witcher leads, from the library down to where the baths are, but down a different hallway than the hot springs.

Jaskier’s never been this deep into the castle. He’s explored, of course, but the dungeons weren’t exactly on his list of places he was curious to see. Vesemir doesn’t speak while they walk, and he only stops to grab a torch from the wall and light it with a quick Igni. Jaskier chews his lip to keep his questions to himself.

Whatever this is, it feels important. Jaskier is sure his rambling would just upset Vesemir further.

The deeper they go, the damper it gets. Eventually, the smooth brick walls give out to roughness, indicating where the building stops and the carving into the mountain below begins.

Jaskier shivers a little, unsure if it’s because of a chill or the general atmosphere of darkness.

Vesemir finally stops at a large iron door. He’s lit oddly by the torch; Jaskier can’t see his face, but he can see his neck, his hand, and the firelight makes him look younger and older in flickers.

“I want you to know that if you think me a monster after this,” Vesemir says gravely, “that I don’t blame you, and I understand.”

“Vesemir, what – ”

“You’ll see, bard.”

He opens the door.

For a moment, Jaskier can’t really see anything at all. Just Vesemir, illuminated by the torch, and the vague outline of the room they’re in. Vesemir takes a breath and casts a Sign – Igni again, or a form of it, and several torches along the walls of the room flare to life. Jaskier blinks in the sudden brightness, and then looks around the room. It’s rather large, two doors on opposite sides and more than a dozen stone daises, spaced out evenly between the walls. There are tables near the daises, and Jaskier steps closer to one to look at it.

His stomach promptly drops to his boots with realization. Everything that’s on the table looks like it belongs in a mage’s laboratory or a healer’s tent, and he  _ knows _ what that means. He looks closer at the dais nearest to him and sees signs of wear in a specific pattern, lines along the corners that, when he follows their direction, lead to metal rungs in the floor.

This is where they conducted the Trials. He feels a bit sick.

“Vesemir?” he asks, voice wavering.

“You know where we are.” It’s not a question. Vesemir extinguishes the torch in his hand and sets it aside, then finally turns to face Jaskier. If he’d looked haunted in the library, Jaskier can practically count the ghosts himself, now. “This isn’t what I need to show you, but it’s related. You know what happened in this room, in the three others just like it through that next door.”

Jaskier swallows, but Vesemir doesn’t give him a chance to pull his words together.

“Hundreds of boys died,” he continues, quiet. “Thousands.”

He turns and looks around the room, then picks up his torch again. With another Sign, the torches in the room extinguish, and Igni relights the one in his hand. “Come on.”

Jaskier follows him out, and resolutely doesn’t flinch at the way the door slams shut with a finality he can feel in his bones.

* * *

They walk further and further into the castle, the halls winding. There are places where Jaskier can see the extent of the damage to the castle, where it reached all the way underground; rubble-filled hallways, cracked arches. Vesemir remains as silent now as he did previously.

Jaskier fights the urge to ramble. He swallows down every stupid thought and joke and makes himself sit with the silence and the discomfort it’s bringing him. It’s the least he can give Vesemir, after all.

Finally, they come to another door, wooden this time but just as large. It occurs to Jaskier that the reason the doors are large is likely so it’s easier for two or more people to carry a boy in or out, and his stomach twists unpleasantly all over again. Vesemir doesn’t stop to speak, this time, but Jaskier hears the echo of his previous words in his head as if he had.

_ I want you to know that if you think me a monster after this, that I don’t blame you, and I understand. _

He can’t imagine thinking of Vesemir as a monster, but then, he doesn’t know exactly what Vesemir is going to show him. He’s not sure it can top the horror of seeing the room where boys were – were  _ tortured, _ there’s no better word for it. Tortured and remade.

This room is just as dark as the other, but there are no torches on the walls of this one. Instead, Vesemir turns and hands Jaskier the torch he has been carrying.

“Look at the walls,” he says softly. Jaskier raises his brows, but doesn’t receive an answer, just a gesture to the walls.

So he looks.

At first, he’s not sure what he’s looking at. Cracks in the wall, maybe, or chipped paint, and then he leans a little closer, and the scribbles resolve themselves.

Names.

Hundreds upon hundreds of names, carved in tiny letters, in neat, perfect lines.

_ Keran. Tanek. Maksym, Augstyn, Oliwier, Adam, Raine _ – and more. So many more.

None of the names are any taller than the width of Jaskier’s thumb.

Jaskier’s stomach falls all over again.

_ This isn’t what I need to show you, but it’s related. _

“It’s a memorial,” he says, choked. “These names – these  _ boys.  _ They all died during the Trials?”

“They did,” Vesemir confirms.

Jaskier covers his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut to stop his tears from falling.

“It wasn’t allowed,” Vesemir continues, and Jaskier takes a deep breath before he opens his eyes and turns to face him.

“What?”

“This,” Vesemir gestures. “It wasn’t allowed. But we – the other instructors and I, the headmaster and founders – we turned a blind eye. Because our instructors had turned a blind eye to us.”

“It wasn’t…allowed?” Jaskier repeats, stuck on those words. He can’t puzzle out what that  _ means, _ what Vesemir is trying to tell him. “A blind eye? To  _ what? _ ”

“We didn’t want them to form bonds before the Trials,” Vesemir explains. “It was heavily discouraged, even though we knew it wouldn’t succeed, not perfectly. And after – after, we didn’t want the losses to interfere with their training. With their adjustment to being a Witcher. So we didn’t allow them to memorialize the dead. We didn’t speak their names; we burned their bodies on a pyre, all together, and let their ashes float down the Gwenllech to be forgotten.”

Vesemir’s voice begins to waver, but he doesn’t stop. Jaskier knows his knuckles have gone white where he’s holding the torch, knows he must look horrified. He can’t do much more than stare at Vesemir and tremble.

“But the survivors didn’t forget. Even when they were punished for it, they didn’t forget. I could recite the name of every boy that died during my Trial. Geralt, Eskel, Lambert, they could, too. I couldn’t tell you when this – the carving of the names – started. But it did, long before my time, and we let it continue, turned a blind eye because it was one of the only kindnesses we could extend to them. It became almost as much of a rite of passage here as the Trials themselves.”

His voice trails into silence, wavering all the while, and Jaskier doesn’t know what to do with the sickness and sadness and  _ rage _ swirling through him.

“You – they….”

“I said that I wouldn’t blame you if you thought me a monster, Jaskier, and I won’t. I  _ don’t. _ ”

There’s a moment where Jaskier wants to agree, wants to call Vesemir a monster, a bastard, anything to get rid of the black tangle of emotions crawling up his throat. But he doesn’t, because it’s not  _ true. _ He’s angry, yes, so angry, and sad, and – and  _ horror-struck, _ but not at Vesemir. All of it is just in general, anger and horror at the machinations of destiny, of the events that led to the moment Vesemir had to make that kind of decision. “No,” he finally says. “I don’t think you’re a monster, Vesemir. But – why? Why are you showing me this,  _ telling _ me this?”

Vesemir sighs and drags a hand down his face. He suddenly looks so much older, as if Jaskier can finally see the centuries weighing him down, the countless losses and wounds he’s experienced over a life much too long. “Context, for the past and for other things I’ll tell you later,” he says. “There was happiness here. There was camaraderie and care and  _ love _ – but underneath all of it, figuratively and literally, was this. We broke those boys, Jaskier, in the exact same way they broke us, the way the ones before broke them. Broken and remade into something new, something different and altogether unfathomable from an outside perspective. It left a mark on us, on them, on anyone it touched, that you can barely even comprehend.”

Jaskier’s mouth works, but he finds he simply has no words. Vesemir sighs again and continues.

“You asked me, before,” he says, “about Geralt’s childhood. His mother abandoned him on the side of a road for me to find. He was four, and he cried for weeks, for  _ months; _ much longer than the others ever did. Most of them were just glad for a warm place to sleep and steady meals. I won’t pretend I know why Visenna did what she did, but Geralt was different from the very beginning. And on top of that, he was stubborn and mulish and gave the instructors – including me – absolute hell clear up to his Trial.

“You know about his extra mutations, but I doubt that he’s ever told you what that cost. He did well during the Grasses, which just means he lost less blood, only vomited a handful of times instead of dozens, and didn't slip into a coma. The mages, they wanted to experiment, wanted to make the formula stronger, make stronger Witchers. So Geralt and a handful of other survivors from the first round of the Grasses underwent it – and more – all over again. More pain, more blood and vomit and irreversible change.

“Geralt was the only one to survive. The mages decided the new formula was a bust.”

Jaskier finds that he’s shaking. He grips the torch tighter and pushes his other hand through his hair, trying to quell the trembling, to ignore the yawning pit in his stomach.

“He used to be talkative, you know,” Vesemir says, and there’s naked grief in his voice now, not just the shadow of it. “Had it in his head that he could be a hero. Some kind of white knight. We tried to discourage that thinking, of course, to keep him reigned in, but I don’t think we ever really succeeded. That nobility, the goodness inherent to him that even the second round of the Grasses couldn’t kill, it’s gotten him in more trouble in this life than anything else.”

Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut once more, each of Geralt’s heroic acts thrown rapidly into a new and sickening light. He thinks of Blaviken, of Renfri, and suddenly feels like he may never smile ever again.

“Pain is the constant companion of a Witcher, even before he’s properly a Witcher. There’s the mutagens in the food, and the training, and the Trials. And then more training, and more Trials. Until we send them out to the Path, where they find nothing more than monsters, blood, and coin, and humans spitting on them for the crime of serving them and their safety.” The grief in Vesemir’s voice morphs into bitterness, into venom, and Jaskier thinks he’ll never be able to hear anyone insult a Witcher ever again. He’s never handled it well, but now, with so much more knowledge, seeing the depth of the trauma and pain in Vesemir, the steadiest man he’s ever known – he’ll gladly accept the blood on his hands to make up for even just a  _ fraction  _ of it.

He looks back to the wall, the names.  _ Rocco, Ada, Valentin, Leo, Ayomide, Aspen, Javed,  _ and so many more, others he can’t read, shrouded in darkness, the only physical mark left that those boys lived, that they were here at all. Their only memorial, a rebellion in and of itself.

Swallowing back bile, he turns back to Vesemir. “I don’t think you’re a monster,” he repeats, sober.

Vesemir sighs again. “I have more to show you, if you’ll come. I won’t judge you if you say no.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “I’ll come,” he says. “Lead the way.”

* * *

They return to the ground level of the castle, and continue out of it, past the courtyard and around some of the destroyed walls. Toward the wilderness that forms its own sort of wall around the keep.

Jaskier can see a snow-covered hill in the distance, what looks like a tree atop it. Vesemir is staring at the tree, a single-minded determination on his face as he walks toward it, faster and faster, until Jaskier is almost jogging to keep up. He doesn’t mention it, just sucks in deep breaths of frigid air and follows along.

Vesemir leads him up the hill, and as they crest the top, Jaskier sees the tree in all its glory. It’s an ancient oak, branches curled and sprawling, each reaching so far into the air he almost can’t see the ends of them, many laden with Witcher medallions. Next to it is an equally massive stone, almost taller than the tree itself and as wide as the trunk. It’s got something carved into it, Jaskier can see, from the top to not-quite halfway down.

When he approaches it, he finds more names, and he looks at the medallions again.

Another memorial. But to  _ who,  _ exactly?

As if he’s reading Jaskier’s mind, Vesemir says, “Witchers lost to the path. As well as some others.”

“Some others?” Jaskier asks. He can’t imagine who else would be memorialized here, if the boys who died during the Trial of the Grasses are all carved in that dungeon room.

Vesemir sighs, the heaviest yet, and sits on a small bench near the big stone. “How much do you know about the sacking?”

Jaskier gapes like a fish for a moment before he manages to find a response to  _ that. _ “Not much,” he says. “Geralt doesn’t – well. And I was just a child, I think. Younger, even.”

Vesemir nods. “You were,” he says. “And the news hardly travelled. I was the only survivor.”

For a moment, the reality of that statement doesn’t hit Jaskier. And then, suddenly, it  _ does, _ and he nearly stumbles straight into the memorial stone. “You – you were  _ here? _ ” He looks back to the castle, laid out just below them now, all of its destruction visible.

They had gone through and systematically killed everyone here. Jaskier knows that much from what little Geralt has said about his nightmares, his own guilt for not being here. Which means that Vesemir was either unconscious and no one bothered to check for a pulse or breathing, or  _ worse, _ he had to play dead. Amongst the corpses of his friends and fellow Witchers.

“I was,” Vesemir answers, and for a moment, Jaskier is certain he’s going to vomit.

He doesn’t. It takes a concentrated effort and a lot of swallowing, but he doesn’t do it. He’s still trembling, though.

But Vesemir is talking again, and he forces himself to listen.

“This memorial,” he says with a gesture, “is for Witchers lost to the Path. We would carve their names in the stone, and hang their medallions on the tree. The higher we hung the medallion, the more honorable the Witcher was.”

Jaskier looks up at the tree, at the medallions swinging in the light wind, and then higher, to where he can see – toys. And shoes, and shirts, and rusted training swords. Tears spring to his eyes again, and he turns back to the stone, looking at the names listed there.

_ Everyone  _ died.

That means the elder Witchers, of course, the instructors and such. But he never quite realized that it meant boys. Teenagers, those who had just barely survived the Trials, those just about to undergo the Grasses. Children.  _ Babies. _

“I was the only one left to memorialize them,” Vesemir says. “Fitting, I think, since the sacking was my fault.”

Jaskier gapes all over again. “Vesemir,” he says. “No. It was the politics and the Cats, they – ”

Vesemir holds up a hand. “I told you, anniversaries aren’t always a cause for celebration,” he says. The entire time, he’s been staring down at the castle, not looking at Jaskier, but now, he looks right into his eyes.

Jaskier feels like he may drown in the sheer pain reflected back at him.

“His name was Cale,” Vesemir says, quiet as the grave. “He killed himself, about thirty-nine years ago today. Because he betrayed me, betrayed the Wolf School, and told them how to sneak up on us. He was a Cat, and my best friend.”

There’s nothing to be said to that. Absolutely nothing. Jaskier leans heavily against the memorial stone and takes several deep breaths. Vesemir continues.

“I showed him that back pass,” he explains. “The one I brought you up on this year. That’s how they were able to sneak up on us, to slaughter everyone here. But I survived. So I gathered the medallions, and when there was no medallion to gather, the toys, and clothes, and shoes, and swords, and I carved their names into the stone. Each of those medallions, and everything else, are highest on the tree. Because they shouldn’t have died, and they did it defending their home, defending those who couldn’t fight. Or they were innocent of the world entirely, and died anyway. In defense or innocent – the most honorable ways to go.”

He takes a shuddering breath, something Jaskier swears he can feel in his own chest, and looks to the stone. “The last name,” he says. “Can you see it?”

Jaskier looks up. It’s hard to see detail, but he can just barely make out the last line of names. “Faolán,” he reads.

Vesemir nods. “He was a babe,” he says. “Barely a year old, if that much. Slaughtered, just like the rest.”

“Was he a child surprise?”

Vesemir laughs, though it’s empty. “No, though he was a surprise child,” he says. “I found him wailing in the woods while on the Path and brought him here.”

“Oh.”

“I’m afraid that one day, Kaer Morhen will be lost, too. Like Kaer Seren, like Stygga. I’ve saved as much history as I can, as much of the story that I can piece together. But I won’t live forever, and I know that eventually, it will be forgotten.”

“No,” Jaskier says, and he goes to his knees in the snow in front of Vesemir. “No, I won’t let it,” he says, all of his conviction behind the words. “I – you’ve shown me this,” he says. “Told _ me  _ the story. I won’t forget, and I won’t let it get lost. I swear.”

Vesemir smiles, an achingly sad thing. His hand comes up to Jaskier’s neck, and he bends to press their foreheads together. Jaskier feels the tears begin to fall down his cheeks when he closes his eyes, but he doesn’t mind them, instead bringing his own hand up to Vesemir’s neck.

For a moment, they’re quiet, and then Vesemir murmurs, “You’re the best gift destiny has ever given us, Jaskier. The best gift destiny has ever given  _ me, _ and I fear I don’t deserve the kindness.”

“You  _ do, _ ” Jaskier insists. “Vesemir, you’re – you’re the closest thing to a real father I’ve ever had, never mind Geralt and the rest. You, you’re a rock in a storm. The only port they have.  _ Family. _ My own father – he…he never could look me in the eye. I think I reminded him too much of things he’d lost. But you, you’ve been more than wonderful to me. And you’ve cared so fiercely for Geralt, for Eskel and Lambert. For Coën, too. And now Ciri. I can’t imagine where they would be without you, and I don’t want to. I don’t want to imagine where  _ I’d _ be without you.”

Vesemir makes a soft, broken noise, and his grip on the nape of Jaskier’s neck tightens. “Thank you,” he says. “Thank you, Jaskier.”

They remain there for a long time. Jaskier doesn’t pay attention to the passage of it, or the snow soaking his breeches. Instead, he just firms his grip, and stays until Vesemir has the strength to leave.

* * *

Three days later, Jaskier is lucky enough to witness the first time Ciri really tries to properly befriend Vesemir.

It’s midday, and usually Ciri would be reading for pleasure, or taking a nap. (The nightmares don’t come as often during the day.) Instead, Jaskier watches from around a corner as she approaches the elder Witcher with an ancient tome in her hands.

“Ciri?” Vesemir asks, nodding to the book. “What is it?”

“Alchemy,” she replies. “I wanted – Jaskier says you’re good with plants. And the potions. Will you – will you teach me?”

Vesemir’s expression softens, shaving entire decades from his countenance.

“Of course,” he answers. “Come here. Where would you like to start?”

Jaskier catches his eye before he leaves, and Vesemir mouths, “Thank you,” to him once more. Jaskier just shakes his head and mouths, “Thank  _ you, _ ” back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, _now_ the active angst of this fic is officially done. i promise.
> 
> warning, though, for next chapter: it contains porn at the end. i couldn't figure out how to section it out like i did the rest, so it stayed where it was. i'll put a note on the next update of where exactly to stop reading to avoid the porn but not miss anything about the chapter!
> 
> also, hi, i'm in the US and uh..............yeah. so like, comments? pls? i need the happy chemicals.


	23. chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jaskier wakes to find a black kestrel sitting on his chest, and frowns._
> 
> The winter winds down, and some decisions are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit y'all it's almost the end. this is the last real chapter before the epilogue. what the fuck.
> 
> **_IMPORTANT:_** if you're looking to skip the porn, stop reading when jaskier is a total cheeseball and says, “So. It’s still a little chilly….” the porn goes from then to the end of the chapter.

Jaskier wakes to find a black kestrel sitting on his chest, and frowns.

There’s no way the bird is real, but it certainly looks like it is. It tweets at him, a markedly angry sound, and pecks at his chest. He expects pain, but finds instead that he barely feels the poke, and hears the sound of the bird’s beak striking – parchment?

He looks down. There’s a little piece of parchment on his chest.

“Huh.” He picks it up. The kestrel tweets again, almost indignant, and…disappears.

Looking at the parchment, he recognizes Yennefer’s elegant scrawl and purple ink.

“Fucking magic,” he mutters, “fucking  _ mages. _ ” He sets the note aside to get some more sleep.

* * *

The second time he wakes, it’s to the sound of Ciri chattering excitedly as she leaves her bedroom, probably headed for the breakfast table. He groans and sits up, grabbing the note, now a little crinkled where he’s rolled to lay on it, and bringing it to some of the sunlight streaming over his bed.

_ Jaskier – I have something important to discuss with you. This note is a portal charm; light it on fire, and it will open a portal to where I am. For when you get off that mountain. – Yennefer _

Jaskier blinks.

“Convenient,” he mutters. “I have something important to discuss with you, too.”

He carefully folds the note and tucks it into one of his nearby packs. He needs food, and then he’ll tell the others.

There’s actually several things to discuss, he thinks, when he hears the distant calls of the early-arriving birds. Spring is nearly upon them.

* * *

“Yennefer wants to meet me when I’m down the mountain,” he announces to Geralt and Vesemir.

Vesemir hums an acknowledgement, but Geralt looks confused.

“How do you know that?”

Jaskier waves a hand. “One of those messenger birds she uses, the black ones?”

Understanding dawns on Geralt’s face. “I hate those.”

“Not a fan either, personally,” Jaskier snickers. “But anyway. Since I was thinking about it – how, exactly, am I getting down the mountain?”

Vesemir snorts and gestures to Geralt, then leaves. Jaskier watches him with a quirked brow.

“I’ll take you,” Geralt says, as if Jaskier is dense.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Okay, are you returning to the Path as usual?”

Geralt frowns. “Yes.”

“Even with Ciri here?”

The frown deepens. “Well, she’ll have Vesemir and Coën,” he says. “And once you’ve spoken to her, I can speak to Yennefer….”

“So you’re telling me you’re willing to go out on the Path, clear to Redania and Temeria and further south like you usually do, when your  _ daughter _ is up here?”

Geralt blinks. “Oh.”

“Exactly.” Jaskier sits in a nearby chair. “So, I don’t necessarily think you should stay up here – gods know you’d get cagey in a week, you’ll  _ need  _ to return to the Path. But – ”

“I shouldn’t travel too far,” Geralt finishes. He pulls up his own chair. “You’re right. But  _ you _ have – ”

“Business and festivals and such, yes,” Jaskier nods. “I don’t… _ want _ to be apart from you, Geralt, but….”

Geralt nods. “You have things you have to do,” he says. “As usual. I’m just – more confined to Kaedwen, now. That’s all.”

“I don’t want you to think I’m avoiding you, or something equally stupid.”

For a moment, it looks like Geralt will protest, but he seems to think better of it. He pushes a hand through his hair, looking a little embarrassed, and nods. “I understand,” he says. “I won’t. What will you do, though? It’ll be easier if you just stay on that side of the Continent, and further south, but….”

Jaskier grins. “But you worry about me travelling alone,” he says, a little sly. Geralt looks even more sheepish. “I don’t know, really. I really do have some business to attend to – the intelligence kind – and aside from that, well….”

“Travel with me.”

He and Geralt both turn to find Eskel leaning against the entryway, looking a little unsure but not looking away from their gazes. “Travel with me instead,” he repeats. “Not constantly, of course, but if Geralt is going to be haunting Kaedwen this year so he’s closer – well, someone will have to run his usual route through Redania and Temeria.”

Jaskier looks back to Geralt. “He’s right,” he points out.

“It’ll mean I can keep an eye out, and Jaskier will be where he usually is so he can attend festivals and entertain courts like usual,” Eskel continues. At this point, he’s convincing Geralt and Geralt alone; Jaskier is already sold on the idea.

“…you’re right,” Geralt finally says with a nod. “If you’re both okay with that?” He looks between them.

Jaskier gives him a smirk. “What do you think, darling?”

Geralt rolls his eyes and looks back to Eskel.

“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I wasn’t,” Eskel shrugs. “We can work out more details if we need to later.”

“Or I can just haunt my usual spots and run into you eventually, like I usually do with Geralt,” Jaskier says. “Whichever way, it’ll work just fine.”

* * *

“Why don’t you travel with  _ me? _ ” Lambert asks that night, a little petulant, as he crawls into Jaskier’s bed. Uninvited, Jaskier might add, but he’s not about to  _ stop  _ the Witcher.

Jaskier snorts, opening his arms so Lambert can make himself comfortable in them. “Because you’re usually further south than I spend my time,” he says. “Find me on the Path, Witcher, and I’ll absolutely travel with you.”

Lambert makes a vaguely indignant noise against his throat, but doesn’t complain further. At least, not  _ really. _

“Meet in Beauclair, like usual?” he asks.

“Of course, darling,” Jaskier agrees. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

After that, Lambert sets to giving him an impressive set of hickeys down his throat, and he stops thinking about the upcoming spring and his travels entirely.

* * *

The rest of the winter passes quickly. His days are taken up with teaching Ciri, and a few of his own pet projects, and before he knows it, it’s time to pack up and head back down the mountain.

He could stay longer, of course, but he’s itching to get back to Oxenfurt and see if there is any news on Renfri. After he meets with Yennefer, of course.

Lambert goes first, leaving Jaskier with a fierce kiss and another promise that they’ll see one another in Beauclair. Once he’s gone, it becomes a silent countdown in the keep.

Eskel goes next, and his goodbye is softer, since it’s a certainty that they’ll see one another sooner rather than later.

When he and Geralt are prepared to leave, Ciri hugs him for nearly twenty minutes, and he doesn’t try to shorten it for even a single second. He presses his face to her hair and tries his best to commit her scent to memory instead. Coën gives him an equally tight, long hug, and Jaskier lets him have it, too, his own arms aching from how tightly he’s holding the Witcher.

Vesemir, though, pulls him aside, far enough away from Coen and Geralt that they shouldn’t be heard unless someone is eavesdropping. 

“Vesemir?” Jaskier asks, looking back in the direction of the others. “What - ”

“I need to ask you a question, Jaskier.” The elder Witcher sounds serious, and Jaskier subconsciously straightens his back. “And I want a serious answer.”

“Of course.”

Vesemir pauses, seeming to steel himself. Jaskier frowns, and then – 

“I told you about Cale.”

Ah. “Yes.”

“And you know, rather...intimately, I would assume, Lambert’s...companion. Aiden.”

Jaskier just nods, chewing on the inside of his lip. He’s not entirely sure where this could be going, but the list of possibilities is a short one.

Vesemir sighs. “Lambert has asked to bring him for the winter. He asked last year, as well. He’s asked before that, too. And I am….”

“Hesitant,” Jaskier finishes for him. Vesemir nods and drags a hand across his face. 

“I want…,” he says, slowly, frowning, “Lambert...clearly, Aiden is important to him. For it to be something he’s brought up multiple times, he must be – ”

“If I can be blunt,” Jaskier interrupts, “they’re in love. Lambert probably doesn’t know that, I will admit, but the fact remains.”

“Yes.” Vesemir sighs again, and looks past Jaskier, eyes unfocused. 

Jaskier leaves him be for the moment, aware of the ghosts the old Witcher is seeing, and considers. He knows where this is going, now, and more than that he knows why Vesemir has told Lambert  _ no _ for so many years. With that knowledge, he has to really  _ think  _ about what he’s going to be asked. 

Can Aiden be trusted?

He’s seen more than his fair share of the volatility Aiden carries. He’s seen the way the Cat Witcher can lose control.

But he’s also seen the way he  _ keeps _ it. The iron will that has stopped him from ever truly hurting Lambert or Jaskier, the moral compass better than some  _ priests  _ Jaskier has met.

“Can we trust him?"

He’s seen the way Aiden looks at Lambert when he doesn’t think anyone is looking at  _ him. _

“Yes.” Jaskier has never been more sure of anything in his life.

Vesemir looks at him for a long time; Jaskier lets him, like he let him have his silence and his memory. He looks back, calm and steady, and watches as his surety chases the shadows away from Vesemir’s face.

The elder Witcher breathes out, clear, deep relief, and pulls Jaskier into a hug.

Jaskier ignores the tears in his eyes at the sheer softness in Vesemir’s eyes when they part.

“Have a good year, bard,” the elder Witcher says. It’s more of an order than anything else. “Come back this winter, hm?”

“I will,” Jaskier promises.

* * *

Geralt doesn’t ask until they make camp for the first night, just past the end of the Killer.

“Will you – you don’t have to talk to Yennefer for me,” he says, a little hesitant. “But will you…tell her? That I want to apologize. That I want to talk to her.”

Jaskier nods. “Of course I will. I was planning to ask her about Ciri – do you want me to not?”

Geralt shakes his head. “No, the sooner she knows about Ciri the better. But I want her to know that I want – I want to  _ try. _ ”

“She’ll be as proud of you for it as I am,” Jaskier smiles. Geralt rolls his eyes, but Jaskier can see the way he smiles, a little sheepish, and looks down to his lap. “So. It’s still a little chilly….”

That gets him a snort, but Geralt reaches over and yanks Jaskier into his lap easily. “Is it?”

Jaskier nods. “Spring may be here, but we’re still in the mountains. Think you can keep me warm?”

Geralt tilts his head, listening, and Jaskier spends the moment kissing along his exposed throat. “I think I can,” he finally murmurs, and pulls at Jaskier’s hair to bring him into a proper kiss.

For a long time, it’s just that. Jaskier sits perched in Geralt’s lap and just  _ kisses _ him, deep and slick and slow. Geralt rumbles into the contact but makes no move to goad Jaskier on, just gripping at his shoulders and meeting each kiss eagerly. Jaskier can’t help but grin in the small moments they separate.

Eventually, though, it’s impossible to ignore how hard he is, how hard  _ Geralt  _ is, their hips rocking together almost unintentionally.

“Exactly how safe do you think we are?” Jaskier pants when their kissing finally breaks. Geralt moves his mouth down, tracing over the same path Lambert’s now-faded hickeys were. Judging by the nip of teeth, Geralt intends to re-mark him, and Jaskier isn’t going to complain.

“How safe would you like us to be?”

“Want to ride you.”

Geralt makes a soft noise. “We can,” he says. “Not gonna last long, anyway.”

“Me either,” Jaskier chuckles, and reaches for one of their packs. He snags his and digs until he finds something, anything that’ll work. What he finds first is technically meant for his lute, but will serve this purpose just fine. Unfortunately, he has to scramble off of Geralt’s lap to get rid of his pants, but that’s the furthest he goes before crawling right back.

Geralt takes the oil from him and slicks his own fingers. Jaskier chews his lip, shifting so Geralt can reach while he undoes the Witcher’s breeches. He fumbles the ties at the first press of a finger, breath whooshing out of him on a soft moan. Geralt just chuckles and sinks that one finger up to the knuckle.

“ _ Fuck, _ ” Jaskier mumbles, dropping his head to Geralt’s shoulder and moving his hands to the Witcher’s hips for a moment. “I love Ciri so much, but it’s been too fucking  _ long. _ ”

“Don’t talk about our daughter when I have my finger inside you.”

Jaskier snorts, but it tapers off into a soft whine when Geralt starts to move, and he stops thinking about anything but the sensations. Eventually, once Geralt has moved up to two fingers, he manages to unlace the Witcher’s breeches.

Geralt hisses and nips at his ear when Jaskier pulls his cock out. Jaskier apologizes for the shock with several quick, dry strokes, breath stuttering alongside Geralt’s at the feeling of the piercing. He’s not sure the pleasure of it will ever wear off, if he’s honest.

“Fuck, fuck, ready,” he hisses when he can’t take waiting anymore. “Want you inside me, fuck.”

“ _ Jaskier, _ ” Geralt mumbles, half reprimanding and half pleading, but he takes his fingers away and grabs for the oil again. He pours a little puddle of it into Jaskier’s palm, whining when Jaskier slicks it over his cock. “ _ Gods, _ Jaskier.”

“Mm,” Jaskier hums, shifting forward. Geralt helps, until they’re lined up and Jaskier can sink down.

He makes a loud, wildly embarrassing noise, but has no space in his mind to even consider it properly. The piercing rocks over his prostate with a sharp pressure and he rocks down harder, making Geralt gasp and grab frantically at his hips.

“Feel so fucking good,” Jaskier pants. “Gods, Geralt, fuck me, please.”

“Yeah,” Geralt grunts and tightens his grip on Jaskier’s hips. It’s the only warning Jaskier gets before he’s  _ moving, _ thrusting his hips as he lifts and drops Jaskier effortlessly, and Jaskier makes that same embarrassing sound from before. Pressed together like this, the angle is perfect, and Jaskier’s cock rubs maddeningly against Geralt’s worn-soft shirt.

He lets himself give in to the pleasure for a long moment, not focusing on anything except the feeling of Geralt filling him, the sounds the Witcher makes when he bottoms out. It isn’t until he hears Geralt swear, colorful and half in a language Jaskier can’t even pin right now, that he realizes how close he is.

“Oh, shit,” he hisses, grabbing a handful of Geralt’s hair and yanking him into a messy, biting kiss. “Gonna – fuck, Geralt,  _ just like that, _ fuck – ”

“Come for me,” Geralt mutters with a flick of his tongue against Jaskier’s lips. “Make a mess of me, I’ll smell like you til I have to do laundry.”

Jaskier whimpers and does exactly as he’s told, shuddering and clenching so hard around Geralt’s cock that the piercing digs into his prostate. It hurts, but sends aftershocks zinging through him all the same, and he  _ screams. _

Geralt comes just as Jaskier starts to finally come down, his entire body jerking enough to shift Jaskier. It knocks another moan out of Jaskier, feeling the way Geralt’s cock flexes inside him, the wet heat of it.

“Jaskier,” Geralt pants. “ _ Jaskier. _ ”

“Don’t wash this shirt,” Jaskier mumbles, words muffled into Geralt’s throat. “Be a reminder til we see each other again, once we get to the bottom of the mountain.”

Geralt makes a strangled noise at that, and Jaskier can feel the way his cock twitches. He presses a grin to the pulse in Geralt’s throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love you all very much, once again. :D


	24. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He uses the time to think._
> 
> Jaskier reflects on his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise! it's my birthday and my gift to myself is posting the last chapter of this early.
> 
> yeah. the last chapter. this fic is done. _holy shit._
> 
> also since it's my birthday, i'm allowed to be super fucking gay, and i just want to reiterate how much i love my friends. kate, and shannon, and mags, and vinn, and everyone else from the WJ, BIKM, and BOG servers - i have gotten just, an _overwhelming_ amount of support and love from so many people and i'm really fucking emotional about it and i love every single one of them, and you, that are reading this.

They make their way down the mountain – maybe a little bit slower than necessary, but Jaskier isn’t going to mention it. Or the fact that they’ve camped more often than they need to, or the way Geralt can’t seem to keep his hands to himself even when they’re traversing treacherous parts of the path.

He uses the time to think.

* * *

_ discovery _

He remembers the first time he realized he truly knew what happiness was.

It was his first time at Oxenfurt, barely out of boyhood – depending on one’s definition of manhood, of course. He was barely fifteen, pimply and fresh out of a sheltered life as a lordling, absolutely thrilled to be anywhere that wasn’t within twenty miles of his father.

It was that day he’d met Priscilla.

They’d been in love, at the time. And remained so, on and off, for years, though by now, decades later, they were firmly  _ just friends. _ And business partners, depending on who was asking. But that day, touring Oxenfurt, meeting Priscilla – it was the first time he’d ever experienced real, true happiness.

Even thinking back on it makes him feel a little giddy, and when Geralt asks what’s making him smile, he just says, “Good memories and the even better present.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, but the way he bumps Jaskier’s shoulder tells him that the Witcher agrees about the present, at least.

* * *

_ pursuit _

It wasn’t until he was nearly eighteen, freshly graduated from Oxenfurt and jonesing for the next big adventure, that he really settled into  _ being _ happy.

His years at Oxenfurt had been good,  _ wonderful,  _ even with their many ups and downs. (More downs that Jaskier would admit out loud, frankly.) He’d found and lost love, made amazing friends and even better contacts, and discovered his real passion in life: music.

But Oxenfurt wasn’t big enough for him, and not too long after graduation, he was  _ bored. _

So he set off into the world to become a travelling bard.

It…didn’t exactly work. Not at first, at least. Not until one fateful day in Posada, when he’d looked across a tavern to see Geralt brooding in a corner.

_ I love the way you just…sit in the corner and brood. _

_ I’m here to drink alone. _

After that first adventure with Geralt, and the many after that, he’d really gotten what he wanted – fame and renown as a travelling bard, adoring audiences.

But more than that, he’d gotten something he needed and hadn’t even realized he was missing.

Companionship, and the next great adventure.

When he thinks of it, he can’t help but stop them for a handful of minutes to kiss Geralt senseless. If the Witcher thinks it odd, he doesn’t mention it.

* * *

_ balance _

Over the years, as he travelled with Geralt, met more Witchers, and became more and more famous, Jaskier found a sense of peace.

His happiness wasn’t dependent on the people around him – though it was increased by having the  _ right _ people around him – and instead, he found himself content to just exist. He didn’t need the next big adventure.

Not the way he needed Geralt, and Eskel, and Lambert. His family, the one he’d built instead of the one he’d been handed, the one that had never quite loved him the way he needed.

And he found his peace with that, too, eventually. There was a sort of poetic justice to it, he thought; how his family had been convinced he’d die alone and penniless as a bard, and instead, he was much richer as a person than any of them would have ever gotten. Because he had happiness, and a family, and love.

(And fame, though that is rather minor.)

Even though harrowing experiences, near-death and the general muck of the Path and normal living, he’d found himself just thrilled to be there. He always had been, really, but it was different.

About halfway down the mountain, he looks over to Geralt and thinks,  _ I wouldn’t change a single thing, then or now. _

Geralt meets his gaze and raises a brow, but Jaskier just shakes his head and leans over to kiss his cheek. Geralt rolls his eyes, but several minutes later, surprises Jaskier with a kiss to his temple.

* * *

_ meaning _

He thinks about Ciri.

He never intended to have children. Too much work, he’d always thought, and he’d never been fond of the idea of settling down.

But now, because of his own choices as a young man and the hand of destiny, he has a daughter.  _ They  _ have a daughter, he and Geralt and Yennefer, the three of them quite an odd group to be parenting. Jaskier thinks they’re perfect, though.

He thinks about Ciri’s future, wonders what she’ll do, and finds he’s content with anything he can think up. He thinks he’ll be content with anything he doesn’t think of, too. He wonders if she’ll pick up Yennefer’s biting wit, or if she’ll end up mimicking Geralt’s more dry humor. Or maybe even Jaskier’s own boisterous, ridiculous joking.

And Ciri, she has more than just Geralt and Yennefer and him – she has a whole family now, Witchers and mages and the occasional sentient monster. She’ll be raised by the most loving family Jaskier has ever encountered.  _ His _ family, the one Geralt brought him into so many years ago.

Their family.

That night, when they camp, Jaskier holds Geralt so tight that the Witcher makes a questioning noise. He can’t quite figure out how to put the light feeling in his chest to words, though, so instead he kisses Geralt and hopes the adoration comes through in the movement of his mouth.

From the way Geralt melts into the contact and sighs in relief, he gets the message loud and clear.

* * *

_ savoring _

Jaskier knows when they’re approaching the base of the mountain, when he and Geralt will split up. Geralt will be going back up to Kaer Morhen for another week or two, and then returning to the Path after that.

He does his best to focus on nothing but Geralt for those two days. Trying to memorize his face, the touch of his hands, the softness of his hair. Geralt leans into the focus and affection like a flower searching for the sun, and Jaskier finds himself excited for the year ahead, thrilled at the idea of travelling with Eskel, their own personal sun.

And Beauclair, too, he’s always excited for the annual return to Toussaint. Not so much for the festival, anymore – he managed his goals of winning more than twice, and many more than twice in a row years ago. No, the festival is where he meets with Lambert and Aiden, now, and he always looks forward to seeing them. To loving them for three or more days with barely any interruptions.

There are things he has to do. Scary things, hard things, things that may end badly.

But wrapped in Geralt’s arms, thinking of all the fun he’ll have this year regardless of the bad, and simply savoring what he has  _ right now, _ Jaskier can’t find it in himself to catastrophize about the future.

Instead, he buries his face into Geralt’s throat and sets to memorizing his scent as well as he’s catalogued the rest of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am i crying a little bit? absolutely. 
> 
> the next fic after this is finished! i'm not entirely sure when it'll be going up, but it is done, so it should be relatively soon - and this series is, ha, _far_ from over. 
> 
> again, i'm gay and emotional and i love all of you very, very much.
> 
> edit 11/20: the background posts i promised on ch12 of this are up! masterpost _[here!](https://fireandpowder.tumblr.com/post/635285681432838144/love-is-heavy-and-light-addressing-concerns)_

**Author's Note:**

> :D the whump tag is real here, y'all. but i promise it gets fixed and ends very, very soft.
> 
> apologies to hsu, who is a literal saint. i didn't mean for this - the series _or_ this fic - to get this big, and i love you.
> 
> also! i have a blog for this fic now! it's just getting set up, but soon enough i'll have background, some bits of off-screen things, and a timeline, go follow fireandpowder on tumblr! also, edit: there is a discord channel for this mess too! server is run by kate, so it's obvs 18+, but this link [here](https://discord.gg/CmhKmQ5) will let you join!


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